Utu Man (8) On a couch

My parents are lying
on a wooden couch,
staring at the fissured ceiling.

They are calm now, and each
tries to divine the outlines
of any creature
hidden in the spots and cracks.

The couch itself, with its
massive orange-painted paws
is like a hippopotamus
who rumbles when he misses
his cosy mud.

My father is in a heroic mood.
"Here is a huge lioness
with two ferocious cubs", he says.

My mother faintly nods
and adds: "And here is
the third, meek one, underneath
his mother's jaws.
He just saw us
and is afraid to death."

My father goes on:
"Here is a vigorous heron,
braving his way to the north."

"Exhausted, all alone, –
my mother says –
he will be overflown
by death."

My father snorts.
"Surely it will get there.
Look, here is a flock of geese
hovering in the flurry
of the autumnal air,
following their silent path."

My mother's voice is less
vibrant now:
"They fly too low…"

"…wait, let me guess:
and also will be grabbed by death ?" -
my father laughs
and stretches, catlike, on the couch
as if he wants to touch
those distant cerulean hills.

From the heap of rugs
where I was hiding,
I saw my mother's tears
welling up and streaming,
and disappearing
in the carmine corners
of her dear, unforgotten lips.

Вланес, 2008

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 790 № 62774 от 27.06.2008

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