Читать книгу blud - Rachel McKibbens - Страница 10

poem written with a sawed-off typewriter

Some of us vanish

out of habit, guided

by some blood-orchestral pulse—

the delirium chorus

of a rowing mind.

She was always going.

I haven’t seen her

in two decades

& I have felt

every year.

What’s the word

for a shadow’s

shadow? Apparition,

dark twin, heartless

daughter?

Sometimes she calls

on your birthday,

my father says.

Confused.

Her mouth full of radio wire.

God is a signal, the devil a song.

*

Hey Ma, how many voices

does it take for a schizophrenic

to change a lightbulb?

Wait. I’m sorry.

Let me ask

an easier question:

When you left,

did you leave

your children

half-full

or half-empty?