Om jenter, om sjølvopphaldsdrift, om viljen til det som kjem. For eit fint dikt av Deborah Slicer.
It’s the kind of mid-January afternoon –
the sky as calm as an empty bed,
black Angus finally sitting down to chew –
that makes a girl ride her bike up and down the same muddy track of road
between the gray barn and the state highway
all afternoon, the black mutt
with the white patch like a slap on his rump
loping after the rear tire, so happy.
Right after Sunday dinner
until she can see the headlights out on the dark highway,
she rides as though she has an understanding with the tracks she’s opened up in the road,
with the two wheels that slide and stutter in the red mud
but don’t run off from under her.
With the dog who knows to stay out of the way but to stay.
And even after the winter cold draws tears,
makes her nose run,
even after both sleeves are used up,
she thinks a life couldn’t be any better than this.
And hers won’t be,
and it will be very good.