Читать книгу Smote - James Kimbrell - Страница 12

So Many Stories

—for April

To return to the living, you have to walk backward

from that place where every beer joint has a playground

and no one’s afraid of happiness guaranteed to end.

Why am I here? Why did my sister disappear? Waves

of foam washing up around her comatose mouth,

helicopter worthy. Soothsayer of katydids, reader

of bees inside the pink hibiscus, who am I asking?

In the land of her absence, everyone is allotted

so many tears. To return to the living, you need

to notice the dogs at our feet, anxious for scraps,

dust rolling in from the funeral next door. Why

did my sister get tossed by her belt loop out the back

of some cinder-block excuse for a bar? Why death

beside a utility pole? Tiller of clouds, augur of

whatever, when the answer arrives, do us a favor.