Читать книгу The Nine Senses - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 11

Sweetbriar

Today, my cusp. I have hit full bloom. Already you can feel me close, on my way back to you. You cannot see what rose is at my lips or where its tender arbors in my hair, white, soft as banana. Today, I am glutted with gloss. Today, anything I don’t like I call postmodern. Go inside a stone, that would be your way. I am wandering the woodlots of childhood. No one knew then what to call the hatched vines snaking up these trunks like a hair shirt. But the pauses I remember, when the country lane gladdened the shed summer light or when the brown water disappeared under oak. Oak large as mountains. It is a wonder any one of us survived. I hid in the lilacs, their voluptuous violet shade, the cool dirt underneath I would dig my hands in. My people, or “kind grandparents of the corn and sun” have all but disappeared from the fields. We had a pact, much like the one I think I’ve made with you. Hey, daydream, though the boys were harsh and cornered us. Though our mothers didn’t protect the girls. We love those girls, would fill our lives with them.