Utu Man (50) A Tear in the Curtain

Every third night or less often
my wife returns,
takes her torn dowry curtain
off its fish-bone hooks

and sits down by my side
as I sleep with open eyes,
watching her windswept fingers
hold a needle and glide,

mending, mending the tear.
Then she bites off the thread
and turns around, to veer
to the land of the dead.

I wake up in the morning,
the sun kisses my eyes,
his liquid lips streaming
through the tear in the lace.

But it becomes harder
to wake up, you know,
as the tear grows smaller
every third night or so.

Вланес, 2010

Сертификат Поэзия.ру: серия 790 № 76210 от 03.01.2010

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