Читать книгу Grace, Fallen from - Marianne Boruch - Страница 15

At the second light, you turn, the boy tells me.

I turn. A musical idea. Turn then,

when a light in any house goes on.

Dark end of the day on the street. Dark

late afternoon in November.

In any kitchen—revealed: the hum

starts in the freezer, down

the lower shelves, takes the stove back

to its fire. The sink is an absence,

one tea-stained cup left to seed.

I live somewhere. But to walk away

is a musical idea. Because a corner means

make a profile to however once

you were. Once a child, I kept turning

full-faced into everything, never

saying a word. You like

to think that, my brother says. I heard you

plenty of times. And you were hiding.