Ãëàâíàÿ>Ñòèõîòâîðåíèÿ>Ôëåäà Áðàóí/ Fleda Brown
Ñòèõè Ôëåäû Áðàóí íà àíãëèéñêîì ÿçûêå. Poems of Fleda Brown
Íà ýòîé ñòðàíèöå âû íàéä¸òå ñòèõè Ôëåäû Áðàóí íà àíãëèéñêîì ÿçûêå.
Ôëåäà Áðàóí/ Fleda Brown, (ðîä. â 1944) - àìåðèêàíñêàÿ ïîýòåññà è ïèñàòåëüíèöà.
I Write My Mother a Poem
Sometimes I feel her easing further into her grave,
resigned, as always, and I have to come to her rescue.
Like now, when I have so much else to do. Not that
she'd want a poem. She would have been proud, of course,
of all its mystery, involving her, but scared a little.
Her eyes would have filled with tears. It always comes
to that, I don't know why I bother. One gesture
and she's gone down a well of raw feeling, and I'm left
alone again. I avert my eyes, to keep from scaring her.
On her dresser is one of those old glass bottles
of Jergen's Lotion with the black label, a little round
bottle of Mum deodorant, a white plastic tray
with Avon necklaces and earrings, pennies, paper clips,
and a large black coat button. I appear to be very
interested in these objects, even interested in the sun
through the blinds. It falls across her face, and not,
as she changes the bed. She would rather have clean sheets
than my poem, but as long as I don't bother her, she's glad
to know I care. She's talked my father into taking
a drive later, stopping for an A & W root beer.
She is dreaming of foam on the glass, the tray propped
on the car window. And trees, farmhouses, the expanse
of the world as seen from inside the car. It is no
use to try to get her out to watch airplanes
take off, or walk a trail, or hear this poem
and offer anything more than "Isn't that sweet!"
Right now bombs are exploding in Kosovo, students
shot in Colorado, and my mother is wearing a root beer
mustache. Her eyes are unfocused, everything's root beer.
I write root beer, root beer, to make her happy.
Through Security
I take off my boots because of their steel shanks.
I take out my orthotics, place my coat and purse in the bin,
place my carry-on on the belt. I take off my shirt, my jeans,
my bra. I take out my contacts. I take off my makeup
and earrings, strip the dye from my hair. I relax my stomach
to its honestly protruding shape. Still, it’s all over the TVs
about me. I’m buzzed again as if there’s been no progress at all
since the club-carrying, the dragging-by-the-hair. I take off
my skin, veins flying like ropes, organs dropping away
one by one. I address the additional matter of bones:
unfasten ball from socket, unhook ligaments,
leave the electronic eye no place to rest.
I am almost ready to go, if I could quit
thinking, the thinking that goes on
almost without knowing, the tiny person
crossing her legs in the back
of the mind, the one who
says, “I still love you,
dear guilty flesh.”
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