Читать книгу The Infinitesimals - Laura Kasischke - Страница 19

The First Trumpet

In a bedroom down the road

some boy practiced taps

so slowly his slow tune

became a single note.

He was the Understander.

He was the Knower.

I was the village on the hillside

hastily nailing its doors closed.

He was my father in the driveway

refusing me the keys. Saying

nothing. Holding. Holding. I

was the exasperated girl in the top cut too low.

There was a party.

I wanted to go.

He was the army holding

that hillside. He

was that army’s wounded soldiers

crawling home:

No.