Читать книгу White Nightgown - Megan Gannon - Страница 8

Selenographia

Some of you is lodged,

must be,

somewhere between the sea

of serenity, or the lake of sleep,

or the marsh of sleep, or the sea.

Particles of solar wind, caught,

some whisker of skin fishings,

I don’t know.

I hope not

the sea of cold.

There was so little of you,

barely enough for the buried

crystalline drops we know now

are there, hardly

an ocean of storms.

Honestly,

I know there’s an eye

brightening even when its full

waning’s waned,

albedo of coal,

light of ice,

but I can’t feel it.

Fingers caught in the classroom

door’s heavy hinge, how your sound

tore through me,

knocking loose some stray ovum,

sea of crises, sea of fecundity,

risen and hovering,

not every sound keeps traveling,

some stay, like stoned gall,

bay of seething, straight through

to the bay of the center.

When that shriek descended

to the newly kaleidoscoped car,

many-faceted geodesic dome that propelled you

somewhere,

sea of rains, sea of vapors,

I was no known sea.

How the word

for indigo churning with its back to us means

noting all along at a certain distance.

Now complex eye.

Up there, the air’s so thin

it can’t be mimicked, even in our best vacuum.

Down here, it’s the weight of two boots

on my sternum. Must you

keep orbiting at this

mean distance?

What doesn’t descend,

shouldn’t. If I hadn’t heard

even some of the words, you wouldn’t.

_______ you _______ Kyle?

He was ________ in a car ________.

I won’t accept this moon illusion—

a thing’s not bigger riding the horizon.

There’s only so long I’ll let these

high tides pull.

Are you there, Kyle?

He was singing in a cartoon.

You have fourteen days

before lunar night turns to lunar noon.

Have you heard, Kyle?

He was hardly in a car ever.

I’m still ringing through loose strata.

Laika needs a lullaby and you

used to pet my dog’s soft ears.