Читать книгу The Hatching of the Heart - Margo Swiss - Страница 14

(for my mother)

I’m just being quiet

the flat line of your lips

drawn over.

just being quiet. . . .

after years of war

(long forgotten).

The lash of events against

her six-year-old scapulae—

made to strip bare before

hands tore flesh, a blur of

eyes and teeth, unleashed to

drive the point home—

the little upon the least.

Later, in the bath

her welts blister and burn

raw to the touch,

after long hot days when bladder scalds

from dehydration of summer sweat

and too many tears wept

so her eyes swelled.

Or night commands to

shut up your coughing:

her throat ached, trying to,

trying not to

flinch in the way of

drunken curse or

hand slug in the face:

don’t you dare

talk back.

One ragged sleeve of pain

worn inside out

so none heard

the scream, rolled up so tight

she’d need to bite down

to swallow the cry whole,

felt like

forever. . . .

One day

the angels came

woke her breathless

whispering her name:

a day so heavenly

everything

for a time

slowed

down

(heart beating in her mouth)

saw sun rise

burst into her eyes

such a large fair green place

space enough to stand straight up in—

And then

she said, mommy,

I’ve seen God!