Читать книгу The Nine Senses - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 10

Attar

Night blooming. Suckle of honey. What the mockingbird wears to keep his balance. Hair-thin like the girls here who skip dessert but allow themselves real cream for their coffee. The man who combs his beard while praying, the Sufis say, is not admitted to heaven, though he repents by tearing it out. Silly man, see how he is still obsessed with it. This evening, after dinner, I go walking, the perfume Irene has given me sprayed on my wrists. I start with the trees, more simply with the leaves. I walk my way in, scenting the grasses. Where the country begins: fox left like a dirty rag on the road, folk who handle snakes to heal themselves. Better than drugs and cheaper, Irene said. Everyone has a need for transcendence. William Carlos Williams knew nothing of what it is takes for a woman to stand naked in her own house. Cancer in her bones, dancing to Roy Orbison. No, I won’t ever be cured, Irene told the thin girls. It’s in the nature of the disease.