Читать книгу Repetition Nineteen - Mónica de la Torre - Страница 21

There’s some silence, the serving of something that’s bitter,

I know that.

And there’s something inside something else.

There’s two roads from a source and—

wow, my memory these days!—

Oh yeah, your eyes are closed during a nap.

Yeah, mirror something, there’s two somethings.

There’s two lights and two boys and then there’s three.

There’s three open books and three grains of salt.

And there’s something else I didn’t understand.

And some complicit enemy.

Four times I call your name and nothing.

Four times is the same as two times.

Five times, or the fifth time, is the same.

I call your name, and… I don’t hear you.

I’m sensing that the person to whom the poem is addressed

is as distracted as I am right now.

Someone isn’t listening to something.