Читать книгу Bone Map - Sara Eliza Johnson - Страница 8

Fable

In the forest, the owl releases a boneless cry.

I know the names of things here

and I can hold them.

I hold your hand:

a matryoshka opening deeper

until I can hear your bones

singing into mine,

and feel the moon

as it rolls through you

like a great city before a war

where it has been night for so long

that everyone sees

with their hands,

and then somewhere in the city

a newborn animal

shakes the dust off itself

and stands, makes

a thimbleful of sound,

and a boy standing in the square

turns toward it,

and his father, not knowing

what his hands will be made to do

to other men,

places a hand on his head.