Palavras lidas #436

Tenderness
by Ann Fisher-Wirth

When I wake, afraid,
the light on the deck next door
where the frat boys live
who have tumbled into sleep
after much beer
and after sprinting up and down
the street with their
black Labs, chasing frisbees,
calling, Yo, got it man––
the light they forgot to flick off
after grilling burgers
on the deck, just like they forget
to water their yard or take
their garbage cans off the street––
this random, ordinary light
shines among the inky trees
and through the thick
music of locusts and tree frogs
as if to call me home,

like a candle in the window
of a fairy tale cottage
at the heart of the dunkel,
dunkel Wald––or the safety
I felt when I was small, when
my little sister and I would sleep,
legs curled around legs and heads
pillowed against the doors
in the back seat of the green
Chrysler, as our mother
rested her cheek on her hand
and hummed peacefully
out the side window,
and our father drove through
the cool September night from
the Tuscarora Mountains––
then I would wake groggy
to see the garage light
waiting for us, and one of them
would carry me up to bed.