“Me, Brighid!”
Our brows hang low.
Two sets of eyes rake the streets for signs –
a roof whistling with heat like a kettle,
blood clots of gawkers,
the wound of a battering ram.
The news had come as a smell in the air that
put on all our lips and tongues The Theory.
The baby, not fluent in smells, heard
our rubbernecked humming
and said, I want to see the house on fire!
She has said, But I wanted to sleep in the flowers!
and Shoo! Shoo!
and Remarkable!
and now this,
and so I say yes!
She should see the house on fire, yes.
She, blonde and blue, milky- and moonish-white.
Now, while she can still gasp and gaze – as at a
firework show
over a hot, glass river –
and marvel, unobliged to pity.
And we’ll point and make O’s with our mouths at each other,
and the sky will rain paper, and flame-warped photos of
men who look like accordions
- Amazing!
| Lindsay Reid |
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