Читать книгу Dialogues with Rising Tides - Kelli Russell Agodon - Страница 12

Today apologies were falling

from the trees and the apples

were being ignored.

There’s a chapter in our lives

where we tried to shred pages,

where we tried to rewrite the tale.

Let’s call that chapter The Numbness,

or The Boredom, or the place where we forgot

we were alive.

That morning I woke up and wandered outside

onto the backtrail,

past the No Trespassing sign into the arms

of an evergreen or a black bear. It didn’t matter

who held me then; I was the moss, the lichen,

the mushroom growing on the fallen log.

No one expects perfection, except when they do,

which is always.

Even you, king of the quiet,

crash when I talk about my brokenness.

Cover up, your fractures are showing.

In my life I try to apologize for things I haven’t done

yet. Those are the bruised apples of me,

the possible fruit rotting in the field.

Remember when I kept replaying melancholy?

Remember when I opened our melody with a switchblade?

Rip out the carpet. Mow down the dahlias.

Let’s ruin our lives …

It felt good to hurt then—

until it didn’t, until we were left

with bad flooring, a garden

where nothing grew.

You’re asking about the next chapter

and the one after that. You’re asking

what time I’ll be home and handing me

a cloth to buff my halo.

Let’s put a comma here.

Let’s put in a semicolon and think about

the next sentence.

I dream of erasers. I dream of wite-out.

I dream of the song where the pharmacist

doesn’t judge me for not being able to make it through

the day without some sort of pill.