Читать книгу Bone Map - Sara Eliza Johnson - Страница 12

Märchen

Lost in the forest one night, we find the body

of a wolf, its throat torn open,

the wound a cupful of rippling

black milk, where maggots curl star-white

in their glistening darkness.

The eyes hum with flies, which drone a joy

in the bones, the brain, wander

into the labyrinth through the tongue,

still hanging out in half-howl.

We keep walking, holding out our hands

to feel our way through the dark

as if we could touch as it touches,

know it as it knows the stars

that float in the vacuum of its voice,

that grow brighter and louder

until it unsays them, takes them

back. I know first there was light

to give the void a shape. I know

what has no beginning cannot end.

I can hardly see your face out here

but I can hear you breathing.

Your voice opens and says

I think the path is this way,

floats out, crosses to me

in a little cloud-boat and is gone—

Keep talking. How did the story go?

How dark it was inside the wolf,

which had begun as a clump

of darkness inside another wolf.