Искусствоед
Eavan Boland
In His Own Image
I was not myself, myself.
The celery feathers,
the bacon flitch,
the cups deep on the shelf
and my cheek
coppered and shone
in the kettle's paunch,
my mouth
blubbed in the tin of the pan
they were all I had to go on.
How could I go on
With such meager proofs of myself?
I woke day after day.
Day after day I was gone.
From the self I was last night.
And then he came home tight.
Such a simple definition!
How did I miss it?
Now I see
that all I needed
was a hand
to mold my mouth
to scald my cheek,
was this concussion
by whose lights I find
my self-possession,
where I grow complete.
He splits my lip with his fist,
shadows my eye with a blow,
knuckles my neck to its proper angle.
What a perfectionist!
His are a sculptor's hands:
they summon
form from the void,
they bring
me to myself again.
I am a new woman.
In His Own Image
I was not myself, myself.
The celery feathers,
the bacon flitch,
the cups deep on the shelf
and my cheek
coppered and shone
in the kettle's paunch,
my mouth
blubbed in the tin of the pan
they were all I had to go on.
How could I go on
With such meager proofs of myself?
I woke day after day.
Day after day I was gone.
From the self I was last night.
And then he came home tight.
Such a simple definition!
How did I miss it?
Now I see
that all I needed
was a hand
to mold my mouth
to scald my cheek,
was this concussion
by whose lights I find
my self-possession,
where I grow complete.
He splits my lip with his fist,
shadows my eye with a blow,
knuckles my neck to its proper angle.
What a perfectionist!
His are a sculptor's hands:
they summon
form from the void,
they bring
me to myself again.
I am a new woman.