Читать книгу Washita - Patrick Lane T. - Страница 9
ОглавлениеBARRANQUILLA
There were days he stared at himself in wonder.
His body on the floor, the vodka dribbling from his mouth.
The geraniums in the toilet bowl.
That bar in Barranquilla years ago, the man with the thin blade leaving.
Or the half-blind boy—practicing being
a man in front of his mother’s mirror.
1951.
A paring knife in his small hand: fuck you, fuck you!
Wanting what he is, not what he was.
The compadres in the bar moved away, not wanting to be a part of it.
Vete a la mierda, hijo de puta!
Hate is beautiful in Spanish.
Contempt too, the woman at the table counting the money.
Even now he is unsure if any of it is true.
But there was the outline of a snake carved into that pine headboard:
Hermoso, sí.
Shadows mostly, chimera, ghosts.
