Читать книгу The Nine Senses - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 12

Sanctuary

Under oak. Light that opens like an eyelid to the same trunks, same patch on leaf or leafmeal, then closes. Then opens. The same stuttering pink light. Someone arrives with luggage. Someone has plans to make the best use of her time. And then the time is done. All the eternals—having a father, a mother—are changing form, leaving before I’ve really understood them. Yes, this is how things happen: one dreams of strawberries, and they are served today for breakfast. One opens a book to the page, “When my father died.” I think of him this morning, like a fawn in the long grass. Paralyzed by fear after the diagnosis. (He wanted to speak in tongues. He wanted to travel.) Should I mourn him already, while he is still alive? Oh, Visitor, the silver spoons are clanging in and out of the wind. Above, the periodic tabling of thrush. I could never reach him there. Where reach him now?