Читать книгу Light in Light - Deborah Gerrish - Страница 15

When I think back to the room where I was born,

I can’t help thinking of that other room.

Permanent five o’clock shadow,

eye glasses tight in your dropped right hand.

You in the leather chair, plaid slippers, the unread

NY Times stacked on the nest

of tables, chin on your chest.

The Yankee game drones across airways.

The smell of overcooked lamb chop and onions,

last night’s dishes piled in the farmhouse sink—

I unlock the front door; push through each room

imagine my mother, breathing, grunting, screaming—

your brown hat and worn gloves

on the chair in the hallway.

Ben Hogan putter leaning in the corner,

waving at me when I found you.