Читать книгу The Nine Senses - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 13

Sparrow

The dawns are numbered, as I am. Though I remain ever after in a state of surprise, like a child, dumbfounded by the word “Enter.” My name is small, a garden-mint, a sprig to decorate a plate. I rarely try to speak for others, and consider the words I say, not like the mockingbird who repeats banalities, not like the robin, habitual, not like the rabbits who are silent but move loquaciously. Clack of dried pea pods, cloud of mosquitoes, one can have too many roses in the house. The world is loud, anguished by its processes. Though perhaps it is wrong to settle, as I have settled, for the simple meal, the cutting garden, the circumscribed stroll by the pond. When what I want is to sing something monumental. My family is rough. I wish I could smooth them. I have been lucky. Not married out to trash men. But while I sleep, the great winds come. Spruce forest. Pine forest. Fir forest. A door opens. A door slams shut.