Linda Ann Strang – Ⅲ
(10 March 2004)
When she was deflowered
it was as if the world was bereft of baby’s
breath because her lover did not love her.
When they went to the fairground
together they looked into a magic mirror
that showed their hearts: he had
none, only bones bandaged in black lace;
her heart was plump with gold stars,
like the Pleiades by candlelight.
In spite of this insight, when he died
she wept. All over the place.
Now she’s met a man with jazz and angel
feathers in the Palm Sunday of his hands.
When she sees him the Aretha red roses
in her soul’s renaissance sing torch songs.
But she beats them down, as if roses were fire
in the violins, embarrassed
because they give her away.
Surely the saints say: Love is! Like climbing
flying stairs till you find yourself in clouds
of feathers and saxophone music
at the top – there your heart’s so full of whats
that no-one can earth it. Forget the feather tax
on your flight plan, baby. It’s worth it.