Читать книгу Rodeo in Reverse - Lindsey Alexander - Страница 13

WHAT IF THROUGH A WINDOW, THOSE ONES?

What if a person’s whole

life were looking quietly

out a window?

That’s not a new idea, but whether it’s a sad story depends

upon the view I reckon.

What if outside the windows were the ancestors

of your lover?

Outside—a slow conveyer belt,

a parade, a mugshot lineup, a reverse death

march of the ones who made the one you love.

Can covetousness break glass?

Seep through the casement like a draft or

a bad odor?

How to thank—

Do not think about the thoughts of the long-gone

people on the other side

of the window. They cannot see

you and probably would not wish

to if they could.

But I thought our forebears look down on—

This is not heaven. This is an exercise.

With a window.

This is an exercise on looking.

Ah.

What do you see?

Aprons.

Good. What is in the pockets of the aprons?

Coins.

I can’t make out the amounts or dates, but they are coins

of varying circumference. No bills.

The waistbands—some of them have

rickrack or frills.

Now I understand

my fortune. Thank you.

You cannot see inside the pockets.

But you—

You know nothing of the ones who made the one

you love. You do not know

their motivations or worries or hairdos except

their worried eyes and picture-day hairdos.

You do not know the wear

of the tread on their bootsoles or whether they wore slippers to bed.

This is not a metaphor.

This is an exercise, an exercise

on looking, which always means imagining,

which means tying together right and wrong and half-right and half-wrong

like a bouquet garni and tossing it thoughtlessly

into the pot, steeping until having

flavored everything.