Читать книгу The Nine Senses - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 16

Delight

A spirit that is limited, small as “I imagine,” one that flutters on the shoulder between concrete and abstract, a bird’s call, not its song, in the distance. It is the fragrance of your voice or the colors in what you say, the floral prints, not the solids. Palms laid out like tables spread, mangos with salt, fried potatoes. It is the feeling you perhaps learned as a child leading your mute twin by the hand, pointing out the yellow-headed blackbirds. Delight you must have learned in order to speak for him. Sweet Heart. Red Clover. Cardinals strung along the fence like paper lanterns. We want to go out in the world no matter what. We want to come back home with plans to plant things. Salutations, oh pigeon! And fireworks for graduation! Pine and fir so we can tell the difference between them. The mind thinks of all the boughs and stars it wants to give, unaware of all that’s lost at the periphery. Dear Epicurean. Dear Carnation. Dear Frivolously Blue.