Читать книгу American Happiness - Jacqueline Trimble - Страница 10

SECOND SIGHT

I

Let the spirits gather here

in my mother’s eye. Let some

moonstruck apparition walk her

into the eternal. Three days

the dogs will bark at our door.

And the old women sing,

their voices smooth as ruby

elixir, their tobacco skins soft

as clay. Let her sickness depart.

Let morphine days vaporize

like breath in winter. Let the preacher

say the end. Tell him pour the wine,

the blood. Let her earthly dreams

be finished. Come, gather

beneath the swollen moon and touch

this life, fragile and resilient as skin.

II

My mother swears

that death walked in her room

last night, smiled at her and shook

her foot. But I bear witness

only to the scream that shook the house

and each day’s obituary

of sudden causes.

III

The lamp shines

on her distended face. I listen

for each breath that rattles,

spirit in a sack. Esprit, aspire, expire.

Expiration date unknown. She has come

to this. The old ways will not come to me.

My palms turn outward and prayers fall through

my open hands. Old women sing.

I hiss at the moon and pray for sight:

Wondrous and mystic light,

embrace my soul,

inflame my vacant eye.