Читать книгу You Must Remember This - Michael Bazzett - Страница 17

Atlas

When they lead you into the room with the blind man

and let him drag his hands across the landscape of your face

so that you can smell his old skin and those yellow nails

that have begun to curl like claws, you will stand straight

and still and swallow your revulsion back into your throat

because once he has confirmed the bones of your face

fall into line with his memory of the bones of your father,

he will offer a tobacco-stained smile and a wine-tinged

exhalation and announce, yes, you could only be his child,

all the while fumbling for the greasy string around his neck

to withdraw from inside his shirt a key that still holds

the warmth of his chest when he drops it in your hand.

The map is in the box, he’ll say. The box beneath the bed.