Читать книгу Birds, Metals, Stones and Rain - Russell Thornton - Страница 12

The Man Who Sleeps in Cemeteries

Refuse recyclable paper yard-bags. Refuse gloves.

Collect yard trimmings the way you know how—

I’ll do likewise. My friend, don’t hurt your head.

Afternoons, slide down the avenue. At every intersection,

karate kick crosswalk buttons. Show up mornings

a very macho character, a little threatening. Show up

fawning, a little flirtatious. Talking religion, bitches.

Going on about your lady—in the mirror, lipsticked.

Gang boy in Colombia. Gang man. You left that life.

Yes, they found you in Miami. They killed your wife,

your two kids, they threw you off a balcony. Now lay

down your head. With strands of yourself off in the trees,

running quiet and clear in the quick creek water.

With your arms wrapped around surgical scars.

With your collection of scars. Miami to Vancouver? I think

I walked. Lay down your English. Por favor! Scowl

and explain to me in Spanish that you don’t speak

Spanish anymore. Or Portuguese. Or the Quebec French

that jumps out of you. Explain to me that North Vancouver

has the most beautiful cemetery you’ve ever slept in.

No landlords, no need to pull a knife. With the different

parts of your brain in the right places, explain it.

With your jumble of words, lay down your head.

With your jumble of words. With your single joint

per day and the pain gone out of your skull. Let

the sections of your head click into a proper machined fit.

Yes, killed so many times, scattered in so many places,

you can’t say—say a loud Fuck you! in the direction

of your every past boss. Say it at your every Refugee Board

hearing, at your every income assistance interview.

Consult the cemetery’s visiting bear, coyote and deer.

Consult the community of the dead flowing in unison

beneath your head. Then make your many decisions

and rule the parts of your head. My friend, my co-worker,

here’s a coffee, a set of garden tools and plastic yard-bag.

Come do your expert work. Whistle all day the songs

that came to you in the night through the cold clean dirt.