Читать книгу White Nightgown - Megan Gannon - Страница 13

Daphne Digging In

Tarnish-scent

of times

skin

felt tight

and touch-shy,

the many

buds of my body ready

to break

under hot breath.

Rustling, heat-steeping—

this movement always

outward

so slow

it can’t be seen.

I could be swift as riverwater

or still as ground,

and yet the feeling

that all my daily turnings

were toward a center

I could not cull,

deeper into a self and a shell

I’d always felt but not felt flesh.

Pliant in the never-still,

susurrus as a mind that stirs

spent wings. How climbingly

the heartwood fills.

Can silence

be heard inside

such swayings,

rapturous from a root? Bright,

a high singing in extremities,

taking me elastic,

weightless,

wider, the clearest

chartreuse

rinsing like a gaze.