Читать книгу The Bad Wife Handbook - Rachel Zucker - Страница 29

What Is Not Science Is Art Is Nature

I am dreaming a hole right into the voice of God.

Straight into the dark place where my children were made

but can’t follow me back to. Right into the room

whose windows are too high up to see out,

though the sloped roof is too low for me to stand up.

In New York snow is unusual, arrives like childhood

memories that might not have happened, disappears

without changing anything. But do we say,

when it snows, because some countries

don’t believe in snow, I dreamed of snow? No, we say the news was right or wrong.

We say this strong desire for a window—huge square

glass through which a child standing up in a crib

at night alone in a room at the bottom of a flight

of stairs far from the mother in winter sees:

a Greenwich Village garden cast in urban glow,

quiet, because snow in the ’70s was enough

to make the city slow and mute—is real.

So, say it really happened. That doesn’t mean

it will again or did. Or that the dream

doesn’t make you ordinary.