Читать книгу The Nine Senses - Melissa Kwasny - Страница 9

Sacraments

The green of grass seems personal, ours, because it was there when we were safe, young in our boredom. Cypress, pink scent of flour and water. Water, easy, prolonged. If Walt Whitman were the pilot, I wouldn’t be afraid to fly. There would always be swallows and a motor. The vanishing, not the vanished pastoral. Though there is still time to sit at the boathouse. Pond sheen. Fish coin the surface. We don’t think of slaves. We don’t torture. What we have against the sacramental is that we will avoid it at all cost. Baptism: goose wings beat the surface. What are holy orders without something to obey? Bread of our clay, dropping to our leaves, all the deciduousness we can muster. Light a metropolis over the cleft. Weather is open here, closed like our days. The migrating birds try to stay above us. Confirmation: we are here, though we confess the hours when no one knew where we were. How they followed us into adulthood. Penance we might save for last.