Читать книгу War of the Foxes - Richard Siken - Страница 9

BIRDS HOVER THE TRAMPLED FIELD

I saw them hiding in the yellow field, crouching low

in the varnished dark. I followed them pretending

they were me because they were. I wanted to explain

myself to myself in an understandable way. I gave

shape to my fears and made excuses. I varied my

velocities, watched myselves sleep. Something’s not

right about what I’m doing but I’m still doing it—

living in the worst parts, ruining myself. My inner life

is a sheet of black glass. If I fell through the floor

I would keep falling. The enormity of my desire

disgusts me. I kissed my mouth, it was no longer

a mouth. I threw a spear at my head, I didn’t have

a head. Fox. At the throat of. The territory is more

complex than I supposed. What does a body of

knowledge look like? A body, any body. Look away

but I’m still there. Birds flying but I’m still there,

lurk there. Not just one of me but multitudes in

the hayfield. Want something to chase you? Run.

Take a body, dump it, drive. Take a body, maybe

your own, and dump it gently. All your dead,

unfinished selves and dump them gently. Take only

what you need. The machine of the world—if you

don’t grab on, you begin to tremble. And if you do

grab on, then everything trembles. I spent my lamp

and cleft my head. Deep-wounded mind, I wasn’t

doing anything with it anyway. And the birds looking

for a place to land. I would like to say something

about grace, and the brown corduroy thrift store coat

I bought for eight-fifty when you told me my

paintings were empty. Never finish a war without

starting another. I’ve seen your true face: the back

of your head. If you were walking away, keep walking.