FLYAWAY WOMAN

Flyaway woman with a blue ladybug for a heart,

I am not your firetruck, or the glass wishbone you break

in case of an apple emergency when you split

like the seedcase of an eyelid into the angelic smear

of an orchid of smoke with dangerous doves for hands.

Leave me alone to the night that goes on in the depths

of the praeternatural river that threads the eye of the bridge;

and the fish that brain the darkness with the constancy

of thoughts and emotional lightbulbs

that keep tripping over their hairtrigger traplines

trying to illuminate their destiny

in the palm of the sceptical lightning

who does a bad imitation of God. Flyaway woman,

I could love the way you smile as if

you had a mouthful of coffin nails

and wanted to board the world up with plywood

so you could live like a rose in a hurricane

without blowing the sandbox cities

of the peninsular children away. Flyaway woman, tell me,

is your heart an orange in the fridge with green sunspots,

your body a ship that left yesterday

riding low in the water with a hold full of broken jewelry

to trade with the illegal immigrants

who would sell you a continental gram

for a single bead of rapture? Flyaway woman,

why keep the past alive in an album of angry mirrors,

and grieve like a wounded doe

all tangled up in a constellation of razorwire

waiting for someone to put you out of your misery,

when there’s more silence

in one of the moist plums of your accusing eyes

than there is the space the galaxies

douse their torches in? Flyaway woman,

I am not an arsonist in heat

with a bouquet of wooden matches

and a ragged doll of gasoline,

standing on your threshold with the smile

of a late-breaking headline. There’s no doubt

you’re a foreign queen

in a tormented hive of black honey, but I am not

the sticky bear that’s come to maul your secret bees.

I have my solitudes and voices that speak to me

like cemetery shovels just like you; and I know the terror

of being suddenly overturned by a sudden squall

on an ocean of seaworthy love-letters just like you.

And it’s true that life is often an S.O.S. in a soggy bottle

the keeps washing up at your feet in the morning

like a dead octopus in a kissing booth,

and there are watermelons full of razorblades

who come on like the dawn

and toads of lust who ask you to lick their backs

to craze you with a vision of angels rotting like sheets.

I can’t deny the world’s a house on fire

and there are slimy organizations of algae

that go from whore to whore,

asking you to write off your life

as a charitable donation

to child pornography; I cannot say the world’s a nun,

or there aren’t scars and skidmarks on the moon

from previous landings, forks

that strike like vipers at the olives in a nest,

but, flyaway woman, I am not your nemesis,

I am not the intellectual coathanger

that wants to tear the embryo out of your belief in me.

I live in the dark with terrible imaginings

and a raped ambulance that asks me

to get the lily of her siren to the hospital

for a blood test to prove we die in jest,

and I can’t recall how many dreams ago

the surgical swans and torn peonies

last came for a change of dressings,

the effusions of neglected roses

bruising the return addresses on their unbound bandages,

but flyaway woman, there’s an eclipse in my chest,

a crow in a furnace

trying to peck its way out like a spear,

and small scorpions of doubt

rehearsing requiems of bleached fire

on the keyboard of my feelings like treble clefs,

and I am without wings

in the eternal pause of a comma

that wants to create the world anew from a maggot of light.

PATRICK WHITE