Читать книгу Match - Helen Guri - Страница 11

All breeze stalls mid-cough,

so the fumes of coffee

floss the room, and the plume

of Greta’s voice on the phone

steadies like a feather.

I know her voice is the shape of a wishbone

thanks to a third person

who lay still as grapes in a bowl

while intrepid physicians mapped

a diagram of chords

in what could have been anyone’s gorge.