Читать книгу Taking on the Local Color - Cynthia Genser - Страница 9

The truth predicate, then, preserves his contact with the world, where his heart is.

—W. V. Quine, Philosophy of Language

“Mother,” I addressed her,

“you have created a monster.”

Outside

it was raining, the light

fell splendidly on silverware and tea.

She took a sip. She answered

she was pleased with truth and satisfaction:

they were enough.

*

Fiction

isn’t truth.

You hold its brute head down

until the breathing stops.

The world, the stiff world

isn’t truth.

But it’s where your heart is,

damaged and complete;

it sends you to the street

with a drugged smile

and the whiskey

dragging

like a child of love.

*

My mother is Voltairian

in several ways:

her hair curls,

and even terror

wraps itself around her feet.

She has, as well,

an understanding

with the deep unknown:

it wounds her lightly

and she leaves it

almost

entirely alone.

*

Satisfaction

has four splayed feet and a teat

filled with disaster.

Suck it and know heaven. Just remember

it goes dry.

It leaves you, crying

in your shoes, in

public places.

*

I was planned among the plethora of Geminis

control allowed.

My sister is the amorous mistake, martyr

to an impulse;

which goes to show how even caution

has thrown me

to the winds.

As my mother says,

Love Conquers All;

and it has, me.