Dialogue

She sits with one hand poised against her head, the
other turning an old ring to the light
for hours our talk has beaten
like rain against the screens
a sense of August and heat-lighting
I get up, go to make tea, come back
we look at each other
then she says (and this is what I live through
over and over) — she says: I do not know
if sex is an illusion

I do not know
who I was when I did those things
or who I said I was
or whether I willed to feel
what I had read about
or who in fact was there with me
or whether I knew, even then
that there was doubt
about these things —


Adrianne Rich — "Dialogue"


(ще публикувам и превода на това мое любимо стихотворение, когато си взема в София любимата стихосбирка "Пир след тайната вечеря". за съжаление го има преведено само в тази ужасно-труднооткриваема книга...)

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