Читать книгу Ordinary Time - Michael D. Riley - Страница 16

It is cold. The bull by the door

has flecks of ice on his nose.

Sheep wool is stiff bristles.

Everywhere the breath of animals

fogs and steams, their visible spirits.

I am always cold and barely notice.

Frozen hoof ruts make standing hard.

Beside the small dung fire the woman

dries the child, cleans him with wool

and ice water warmed by her breath.

One more child, I think again, as I have

from the first rumors, the whispered portents.

I am here, doubt alive and well

as this tiny one, rubbed to a glow

by the coarse wool and staring blindly around.

I think of my own four, hungry

often as not, dirty and loved

when I have time. One more child.

As if the one god, Yahweh—I know

enough to know if there is a god at all,

he will be one—would inhabit

with spirit this cold flesh. Messiah

a man I understand. King. Warrior.

Our own child. Dung and hoof-dents.

The song I hear might be

my mother’s old melody

that sang me to sleep despite the hunger.

How well I remember her, dead at 28.

Now this woman sings, something like it.

How lovely it is, how it fills.

I will go soon. Why did I come

or linger? What hope throws stars

across the sky, ropes muscle into walking,

stalks every move tonight? I must be mad

or dreaming. I will leave. I will go home.

As soon as her song is done.