The Trailhead. Kerri WebsterЧитать онлайн книгу.
through her body, what
is expiated? Nothing
is expiated. She tells him
of the torturer’s horse.
He says: I was the horse and
I was his rider. She says:
and you were the body
quartered behind.
She says, some boys on the news
shot a swan.
She says, maybe you could start a book club
where you read about faith
systems. He stacks coins
on her belly
until it’s difficult to breathe.
Gethsemane was more than
a garden, she says. People that night
dreamt of you. He
is weeping again but also
erect again.
She says, the dead swan. Their
daddy’s rifle. Wings
eight feet wide.
“The way fear looks like anger in the animal’s
dark eye”
is one way to narrativize
the universe.
Go ahead, he says.
Why not.
She says, or maybe you could start a support group
where horses ride over
your bodies. Those who survive
get to attend the next meeting.
She twirls the hair on his stomach.
The way freezing persons recollect the snow is
they’re sitting in the motherfucking snow, the snow
is in their mouths and their eyes
are sealed by crystals.
What, then, of outliving?
Poppies are the flower of forgetting.
The old men outside the grocery store
pin one to his lapel.
She says, I want to hold those boys
close, and then
I want to shatter their finger bones.
See, he says?
RIVER WALK
When the other world enters this one, she hears a little click. Day damp with the breath of other animals, hyperarousal of air on skin, everything yes and eyes and windows—
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