Читать книгу Northwood - Maryse Meijer - Страница 21

NIGHT SONG

You brought batteries for the radio.

We danced close, the way we couldn’t at the dance hall,

your cock against my thigh.

We danced those batteries out.

I took them, spent, when I left,

Bobby Hatfield’s sad falsetto

ringing through the copper caps.

Candles quivering against the glass, our shadows

hovering above our heads I will never forget

the spider’s egg opening in the corner, her babies

spilling across the wall as you dug your chin into my neck.

Walking through song after song.

The thing is, you were soft.

The white of a barely cooked egg, the glistening

edge of it, how it trembles on metal.

You kept falling in love.

The spiders

found the cracks, made new nests. They ate

the ants. And the radio sat on the shelf

above the little blackened pan with its scrawny omelets

and said nothing.