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May I be more than the sum of my parts,
than this hand-me-down frame made of shreds and sheddings – egg-shell armour, tree-bark limbs, peach-fur skin – this motley. I’m jaunty as a jester, but fragile as a fledgeling: puckish, resourceful, solitary. May the static that crackles at the end of fingertips bridge this gap. May there be joyously makeshift fixes: wind-up radios hanging from mango trees in El Salvador, relaying Romero’s sermons. His words drop slow as sap, trap hearts like flies in amber while applause rustles with the wind in the leaves. May the static that crackles at the end of fingertips bridge this gap. In another hemisphere, the Blue Danube’s playing from a stereo (this one’s lodged in the branches of a Norfolk apple tree). That Viennese waltz has enough vim to turn a frisbee spinning in the orchard into a space-ship, Kubrick-style. May the static that crackles at the end of fingertips bridge this gap. They called me ‘Kismet’, meaning destiny. Drop the ‘t’ and it reads ‘kiss me’. Could it be that I’m a sleeping beauty you could wake by kissing? Dream for me an infancy and I will be your future. May the static that crackles at the end of fingertips bridge this gap. |
Lucy Lewis
12 June 2006
