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Poetry
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| Flight | |
| By gutterkitty | ||||||||||||||||||||
| 23 October 2006 | ||||||||||||||||||||
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I've been working on this a few weeks and I'm quite happy with it, but I'm afraid the references are a bit too obscure for it to make sense to anyone but myself. I'm intending to submit it to a poetry competition so comments and criticisms would be highly appreciated!
My palms are sweaty. They smell of tea.
I hold them before my eyes, pink fingers side by side in a mirrored touch.
I think of my hands as wings,
the fingers crude feathers. Thumbs interlocked in an awkward, flapping, five-year-old’s flight. Or sliced
off at the wrist, and
stitched together at the spine, a macabre Juliet, Mr Fox’s bride. The only flight severed short on the wedding night, hands round her throat like hungry birds.
Or Icarus wings, bold and broken,
feather shards floating on a brilliant sea. These fingers could tell mythologies, could cast legends on white sheets, a shadow-play of warnings. I trace
a labyrinth in the skin of each hand.
The smell of sweat mingles with the bitter-sweet scent of Icarus’ sea. The pink pads glitter quietly, a pallid echo of the jewel-blue waters.
They can shake the hand of that Mr Fox,
that smiling bastard. They can help him in his work, build his mansion in a London street, stitch red across porcelain faces. They can
dance with Romeo or lay
the foundations of a Capulet castle in a business district brash with glass. They can play games with a young child, in a classroom where innocence is often crude and loud.
When I lock my hands together
they can fly me to love or malice, brash and bold delight in the sun. Foolishly high flight, I can kiss the stars like glitter on my fingertips, I can make a maze on the moon.
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