Читать книгу River House - Sally Keith - Страница 15

7.

My grandmother once convinced us of a donkey

Who lived in a shack. If we looked closely enough

We would see him inside, stretched out on the couch.

Whenever my grandmother saw a white horse

She licked her hand and stamped it twice for luck;

Whenever we crossed the Piankatank, she sang a song

Beginning with a bullfrog, jumping from bank to bank.

I got the sense my mother found these rituals silly.

Or maybe it was just the repetition she resisted?

It’s hard to know for sure and I wish I could ask.

In Adam Phillips’ essay “On Excess” the argument builds

From a single presumption: there is no overreaction,

Neither in grief, nor love.

Funny, I forget that.

Funny, I go on reading, digging and digging for advice

Wanting to believe and believe in nothing at once.