Читать книгу Northwood - Maryse Meijer - Страница 17

ELEGY

For a while in the wood I was drawing scissors. Before the

dance, before your hands, I didn’t even have a premonition

of you, no black mark against the moon, no bad dream

folded into the sheet, it was just me, and that old table, and

my model, lying in my lap. I’d found them in a drawer of

useless things—snapped rubber bands, birthday candles,

half a package of yellowed paper plates. Silver blades, brass

handle, I tested the tips against the side of my finger—oh,

they could cut, those scissors, but not there, no, you couldn’t

chop a tree with them, or make a path; the wood wanted

harder things, a knife, an ax. When I found a loose thread on

my shirt I didn’t think of the scissors, her legs spread on the

table beside the bed: I just put the hem to my lips and bit.