Читать книгу Letters from Max - Sarah Ruhl - Страница 45

REFUGE

For Sarah

Rain falls on the house.

My mother dries dishes

in the dark house in the rain.

“I’m your little dish,”

I tell her, even though I ought to be a man.

“You’re a big dish.”

“You mean I’m very wet.”

I haven’t seen much,

and don’t see much:

The jungle of my short life is one row of white straight naked

trees.

The vines are white and fall apart in my hands,

as if dissolved under the tongue.

Every living thing is screaming dust.

To imagine a heaven is to admit

there are things in this

world you think you could never bring yourself to love,

even given an unlimited number of attempts.

“Learn to love everything—the world becomes heaven.”

“That sounds hard: I have a better idea, pass the soap.”

I tell you now,

unhappily knitted to bravery,

that all you must do

is hate yourself

round and round,

hand in hand, foaming mouth open,

rainbow bubbles dashing open.

Hate yourself more

than any other thing:

you have made heaven.

Heaven’s Proverb:

When your milk Finally spills,

may it feed the toxic white slug

impaled by the heel

of the tyrant’s loose sandal.