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Amelia

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.

 

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