Raymond Carver (Раймонд Карвер)

My Daughter and Apple Pie

She serves me a piece of it a few minutes
out of the oven. A little steam rises
from the slits on top. Sugar and spice -
cinnamon - burned into the crust.
But she's wearing these dark glasses
in the kitchen at ten o'clock
in the morning - everything nice -
as she watches me break off
a piece, bring it to my mouth,
and blow on it. My daughter's kitchen,
in winter. I fork the pie in
and tell myself to stay out of it.
She says she loves him. No way
Could it be worse.

1. The Current

Распечатать (To print)

Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1707

Последние стихотворения

To English version