Волны

           Susan’shead,withitsfelllook,withitsgrass-greeneyeswhichpoetswilllove,Bernardsaid,becausetheyfalluponclosewhitestitching,putmineout;evenRhoda’sface,mooning,vacant,iscompleted,likethosewhitepetalssheusedtoswiminherbowl.SoIskipupthestairspastthem,tothenextlanding,wherethelongglasshangsandIseemyselfentire.Iseemybodyandheadinonenow;foreveninthissergefrocktheyareone,mybodyandmyhead.Look,whenImovemyheadIripplealldownmynarrowbody;evenmythinlegsripplelikeastalkinthewind.IflickerbetweenthesetfaceofSusanandRhoda’svagueness;Ileaplikeoneofthoseflamesthatrunbetweenthecracksoftheearth;Imove,Idance;Ineverceasetomoveandtodance.Imoveliketheleafthatmovedinthehedgeasachildandfrightenedme.Idanceoverthesestreaked,theseimpersonal,distemperedwallswiththeiryellowskirtingasfirelightdancesoverteapots.Icatchfireevenfromwomen’scoldeyes.WhenIread,apurplerimrunsroundtheblackedgeofthetextbook.YetIcannotfollowanywordthroughitschanges.Icannotfollowanythoughtfrompresenttopast.Idonotstandlost,likeSusan,withtearsinmyeyesrememberinghome;orlie,likeRhoda,crumpledamongtheferns,stainingmypinkcottongreen,whileIdreamofplantsthatflowerunderthesea,androcksthroughwhichthefishswimslowly.Idonotdream.

           ’Nowletusbequick.Nowletmebethefirsttopulloffthesecoarseclothes.Herearemycleanwhitestockings.Herearemynewshoes.