Mercedes Webb-Pullman
Pidge, don’t cry!
The box broke, but I
am fine. Pidge,
I can fly!
My head throbs. Blood
in my mouth. I mustn’t smile,
they tell me, or the gap shows.
Not elegant.
Drainage-tube-in-my-cheekbone
ache. The little red plane, diving
to me at the Toronto Expo,
didn’t mention this.
Pidge, salt and sand
taste the same, everywhere.
So does blood.
I flew all around the world
to find Long Island again. It’s certainly
not long now. Am I still
on the other side of the imaginary lion?
Is that why everything is so
topsy-turvy?
Solo. Doing it alone. Lindy did.
They called me Lady Lindy once.
I still miss my little yellow canary.
Fred’s sulking, he won’t answer me.
No one will answer me. Some sort of
navigator he turned out to be. As a flyer
he’d make an excellent sailor.
Solo. Fred’s gone swimming. I can see him
floating away. I’ll cook him some fresh fish,
have a nice dinner ready when he returns.
Waiting. I have unlimited hours now.
The white of the seagulls dazzles me,
their brutal blind eyes.