Through the window

dragnfly

I hit the boy in a daydream. He strolled his motorbike straight out onto the highway where my 50km an hour cruise in flipflops and sun dress was abruptly confused into a squall of bent metal, shredded petals and grating skin. It was a bright morning, the scent of papaya and grass smoke on the wind.

The impact caused two broken ribs, a concussion, knee wounds to the bone, a torn ankle and a wonky side mirror.

It made a tear in the fabric of things that let my dying lover find me, and gave me this poem.

Through the window

wet with rain

we linger together,

–  my broken bones and a galaxy in stillness –

you, winged creature,

bespangled with light.

xx

Dragonfly

quivers once

and lends me her eye.

xx

Through the fineprint

in raindrops

silver maps appear,

and poems

xx

assembled in fractions,

held still on the brink

of this long moment

across the liquid veil.

xx

I see her fractal universe

spinning with flying cities,

a geometry of rice paddies,

hoola palms,

and shaggy clocks, swinging aerial time.

xx

The big-winged banana trees

tear their leaves into feathers.

xx

Hibiscus flowers,

those cherry bells,

stir tincture of raindrop,

with essence of cloud

for the sunbaths of songbirds tomorrow.

xx

All of this, repeating, repeating…

xx

as the view reaches out

an invisible trapeze

on our exhalation.

xx

and all of this, repeating, repeating…

xx

as the fall of mirrors

rushes in – glittering and spinning

prickling and singing…

xx

This moment!

This moment!

xx

On glossy flutes.

xx

The Bali postcard

explodes into splendour,

implodes into silence,

and swells with the beauty

of the excruciatingly untouched.

xx

Bali, tosses her head and anoints her full belly.

xx

In this most raucous of quietude

she pulls a shroud of monsoon wetness

across herself,

lets wild rain

tease at her nipples, fill her breasts

and coax her flesh into ripples

and eddies, burst edges and rivulets of

living mud.

xx

She breathes hot

into the chamber of her storm.

xx

She arches her back and presses her curves

into the swelling edge of puddles,

across flooding paddies,

and into cups

that reach

an aching fullness

while

those

ecstatic

globes

of liquid mirror

drive on

in fleets

their chariots

xx

flying to earth in explosions of ecstatic math.

xx

Through the dragonfly’s eye

I see them ride their exquisite parachutes

in from Himalayan adventures

to burst

all their stories

into rivers.

xx

To write them down the backs of cuddling ducks

to draw them in  haikus

upon the tendrils of a passionfruit vine.

xx

Trickling…

Extending…

The curves of their perfect orbs

Slowly

Descending

xx

as they take upon themselves

the caress of the wind,

the cool cheek of sky,

the frenzied swirl of the spinning palm

and a shrapnel of flight

from their abseiling sisters.

xx

Red leaves, orange berries

A lost bird.

Gardenia flowers

and the tiny things that swoon in their skirts.

xx

All these drawn on their bodies,

tearing mud-bound in crystal,

as battalions of sweet ammunition

fall and explode

catastrophically

every

one

and create the world

all over.

 

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3 thoughts on “Through the window

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