Читать книгу Magyarázni - Helen Hajnoczky - Страница 23

No common contemporary word

Sputtering drone, petticoats,

embroidered vests,

red leather boots.

No one cooks over an open fire,

scratches words into wood,

drinks by candlelight.

You want a sharp consonant,

an axe of a word to split myths,

to cleave false memories.

You want a word to spit

this was no world, no time

anyone lived in.

The truth was a city,

baroque façades, paved streets,

three-piece suits and hatpins.

But war is a dry husk

to jam in people’s mouths,

so you’ll let the letter rust and dull.

(The rhythm of that drone,

that twirl of skirts,

the burn of liquor in your throat.)