Читать книгу Strangers - Rob Taylor - Страница 15

I do not wear you

when I shower, when I sleep,

when playing sports or making things,

my knuckles thick in dirt or grease,

though I wear you now on the hand

behind my head, which tilts it to the page.

Remember when I lost you

those six months beneath the driver’s seat?

You must have hidden in my pocket—

the one inside the other—

and when I wriggled out the keys

you ventured too.

Folks think you represent

but we both know you’re

up there in the darkness of my hair

or, one time, waiting in the car.

When I rediscovered you

we were both prodigals’ fathers

grieving our sons,

though it was my hand, of course,

reached out in welcome,

my mouth that rushed the story to my wife.

Yes, you arrived with my marriage.

You’ll go at the end, off to some necklace or pouch

or you’ll linger years in the earth

until all you encircle is earth

and a scavenger prospects you up,

as I did, from the muck.

It wasn’t much. I was in the field.

I knelt. My hands were bare.