Читать книгу Eventually One Dreams the Real Thing - Marianne Boruch - Страница 14

In June

I can’t help but

think about the dead. Everywhere

their flowers burn bright.

Roses lift the trellis, lie

about their thorns. Then the feather-like

lavender I can sweep

with my hand — that scent

wakes anyone. Oldest question,

oldest answer: so the dead

go where? A shrug,

a blank look. Or the stories

we’ve heard and heard,

nodded off hearing. There’s a place.

There are angels, good

and bad, right? And we all —

Some of us fly. Fly!

I’d climb into the drawing

Leonardo made and be the figure

bent to gears

and levers and ropes pulling up wings

of tanned hide sewn

with raw silk. And fail. And never

get anywhere for years

and years. Talk to us,

the dead say, our

deep blues set the garden adrift,

our leafy fronds do the shade right.

Still one of the living, I walk there

twice a day, early morning,

evening. Because once

you made me lie down

in that dream, telling me

it’s easy, it’s all

in the small of the back, subtle,

most delicate angle. And you lift

like this, you said.