Читать книгу Undying - Michel Faber - Страница 10

Lucky

In late ’88, not knowing how lucky I was,

I met a woman who would die of cancer.

I looked into her eyes, and did not see

the dark blood that would fill them when

the platelets were all spent.

All I saw was hazel irises, keen intelligence,

a lick of mascara on the lashes she would lose.

I thrilled to the laugh that pain would quell,

admired the slender neck before it swelled,

and, when she gave herself to me,

I laid my cheek against a cleavage

not yet scarred by venous catheters.

Tenderly I stroked the hair

which was, at that stage, still her own.

I spread her legs, put weight upon her ribcage,

without a worry this might break her bones.

I’d gaze, enchanted, at her naked back, the locus

for the biopsies to come.

Hurrying to meet her in the street,

I’d smile with simple pleasure just to glimpse

my darling who would gladly swallow

pesticide for her future drug regime.

I ran the last few steps to hug her,

squeezing her arms, laying on the pressure,

innocent of the bruises

this might inflict one day.

Hand in hand we walked, and I was proud

to have this destined cancer victim by my side.

I kissed her mouth and tasted only

sweet, untainted Yes.

She was lucky too, back then in ’88.

As long as she would live, she loved my body,

ignorant of what it held, and what it holds

in store for me. The skin she fondled

took pity, withheld from her its vilest secrets,

withholds them still (for now),

maintains the smooth façade

on which, on our first night, she shyly laid

her palms, her lips, her breast, her brow.