Jean
Kent #1 ‘Fly-Away Names’
Fly-Away Names
In
hospital, our names fly round our beds
as if
they are preparing, already, to leave us.
They
are as elusive and flittery as the little
lilac moths I glimpse, unexpectedly, in my garden—
lilac moths I glimpse, unexpectedly, in my garden—
snipped-up
twilight skies, clustering round the plumago’s
leaden
blue, or that long-lost choko vine,
when
its fruit was still small, as exquisite
as ornaments of jade suede, swelling by the hour.
as ornaments of jade suede, swelling by the hour.
In
the watery autumn light, those moths
regathered
every slight angle of sun, and shone,
flashing
violet before they vanished—a burden
of
bruises whisked away so quickly
they
seemed never to have been here.
All
day the nurses and doctors
are netting my name now. I hear it flutter from me
are netting my name now. I hear it flutter from me
briefly
frittery, a bright glitter that could go
out
of the ward and down the corridor with all
this
building’s other breakages. When we
leave
we will all wait for that mist of moths
we will all wait for that mist of moths
to
settle back into one black and white print-out,
delicate as a butterfly’s touch on a wrist.
delicate as a butterfly’s touch on a wrist.
We
won’t remove our dangling hospital bracelets
too quickly—those rings of red, pop-snapped plastic
too quickly—those rings of red, pop-snapped plastic
where
our names, detached from us
for too many days, are still warily sleeping.
for too many days, are still warily sleeping.
In
the garden of healing, we will wait
for their return—for the blissed silence
for their return—for the blissed silence
of no
one calling them, yet, for a final flight.
No comments:
Post a Comment