Читать книгу Long after Lauds - Jeanine Hathaway - Страница 14

Of course that’s how silence reveals itself.

I want to hear it but there’s the beep

of a forklift in reverse; there’s the ringing

in my ears. A bug crashes against my

daughter’s high frequency curls.

Refrigerated food breaks down despite the cold

and there’s the deafening deconstruction

of this make-do bookmark, this postcard written

by my mother days before she died. In church

the interpreter wears solid colors, a curtain

behind her hands’ deft evocation of God

whose beguiling privacy unsettles

the heart, the “lub” addressing its twin,

the other side of the river

where women wash work clothes, the shift-change

siren of sweat released into larger bodies

of water, where a sister’s hand will slap

the surface, introduce rhythm by skipping a beat.