Читать книгу School - Jen Currin - Страница 9

The owls in my night class want to believe.

If your parents were missionaries – okay.

If you are a missionary – what the fuck

are you talking about?

We all want someone to release us.

It’s too painful

in this cage.

stealing into a festooned graveyard

to steal you a ribbon –

Fathers die, friend. I don’t know

what else to tell you.

And the talking cure isn’t really.

I shrink away in my shoddy acts of gender.

To enter another disappointment

stale with the first kiss.