Читать книгу The Red Files - Lisa Bird-Wilson - Страница 13

Miss Atwater’s Class

hats askew and mitts bejewelled

with snow, coats open

to the weather, the girls play

in the shadow of the school, just inside

the invisible fence line

they make snowmen and snowwomen

while a huddle of trees holds watch

the girls’ class grows up in nine years

of sharp-edged photos, each time exposed

after play, exhausted—

in the front row an unwavering eye

catches the camera, an Indian

girl, number One-

Seven-Four on the school roll call

the girl with a narrow look, small

for her age, straight-faced,

never smiling, never

frowning, unreadable

as if she willed her young self long

ago to stop scenting the trap line, smoked

hide a vivid memory, pushed

aside: dense sage,

wild root, the open plain