Читать книгу Dear Prudence - David Trinidad - Страница 39

POEM WRITTEN WITH MY NEMESIS LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER

You who would judge everything I

say, and how I say it, this is what

I see right now: Earl Grey tea (too hot

to sip) in pink Fiestaware cup to my left;

pile of unfolded laundry (mostly towels

and socks) to my right; arctic Chicago light

casting, through glass bricks, prismatic

shadows—like water inside a swimming

pool—on the wall of my coach house.

You would love to harness that

light for your black magic, filter it

through your pitiless gaze, as through a

magnifying glass, and set fire to this page.

The little plastic magnifying glass I once got

as a Cracker Jack prize! You hate the details

of my life, present and past. The Silly Putty I used

to lift color off of comic strips. The fly I trapped

forever, at summer camp, in clear resin, in

an ice cube tray. The books I read by flashlight, hid

under my mattress. (What I loved most

I had to hide.) You cast your life in a harsh

spotlight, on a bare stage. There’s no

redemption there, and nothing is right-sized.

Your mother looms, a giant ghost, a great

inflictor of pain; you cower before her, so small

and yet willing, in her absence, to take on

both roles: victim and tormenter fixed in

their addiction, as in a translucent cube.

The light has moved up the wall, reached

the ceiling. For a moment I’m submerged

in one of the blue swimming pools of my youth.

Then: the red jam on this muffin, the brown

sugar and cinnamon sprinkled on this oatmeal.