Читать книгу White Nightgown - Megan Gannon - Страница 7

Deep Sea

What does the band

sound like in water

waking, the tempo a changing

wave that gathers and releases as it

fills? See, a doorknob

drifts down, and one by one the hundreds

of china cups upright

for how far, falling. Hours,

now everyone moves

gracefully; now we have some place

to put our dead. How many

pressures their bodies get used to,

the slender necks

of bottles, emerald, intact.

Without air, they hardly know

how wetly they’re under us,

how the verdigrised currents

churn sediment, cracking

watch-faces and tugging laces

loose. In the dream-

coursing that clogs ears,

the greeny-grey where

metal drips and ball-gowns

bloom, whatever wounds

they’ve acquired washed

white, skin-flaps

sealed like fishy lips.