Читать книгу I Love Artists - Mei-mei Berssenbrugge - Страница 8

Chronicle

My great-grandfather dozed after drinking

hot liquor in his dark room full of books

When she entered to wake him without knocking

as she did every night being the first grandchild

he was dead. One fur sleeve touched the floor

Once he carried her in his big sleeve through

cold halls to the kitchen where they were burning

straw. His daughter took her smelling of wormwood

behind the fireplace to feed. It wasn't the same robe

he died in, but the same color and cloth. My mother

really can't remember the smell of lynx, herbs

against moths, nor the slowness of his step

which must have been told.