Читать книгу The Nine Senses - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 15

Bamboo

To be almost dead, that careful. Hollow-boned like the birds. Though one is numerous, part of a pack. To expect less of each other. To glade instead of grove, stand instead of grotto. A tender gardener, one might say, who can twist the trellises. Here is where we make our stand, one might say. A body that breathes will eventually make its own noise. For those trying too hard, here is shade. One could live next to people and know one’s presence heals. One could have an empty heart as they do. Bamboo grows straight, marrowless. Look, how we are bent and we have marrow. Down here, the shuffle of leaves barely reaches the still trunks. No matter the words spoken in leaving. Bamboo. It is a child’s word one wants to repeat. One wants to continue to wish the other well.