Читать книгу Door in the Mountain - Jean Valentine - Страница 100

2. THE BATH

My sisters walk around touching things, or loll

On the bed with last month's New Yorkers. My skin, Beaded with bath-oil, gleams like a hot-house fake: My body holds me like an empty bowl. It is three, it is four, it is time to come in From thinking about the cake to eat the cake. My sisters' voices whir like cardboard birds On sticks: married, they flutter and wheel to find In this misted looking-glass their own lost words, In the exhaled smoke.

There isn't a sound,

Even the shadows compose like waiting wings.

I am the hollow circle closed by the ring.