Mercedes Webb-Pullman
Glowing umbrellas and
a thick smell of thunder.
Nothing tastes of windows now,
no one poaches guavas
to serve them floating in custard
like islands in the lake
her father’s father’s father crossed
in search of the marrying maiden,
her karapapa laughter;
a blossom queen with dowsed crown,
her dress an enormous balloon
made of lilac taffeta
with a wicker basket full of crows
flying as they fly, straight
into the photograph
of her earliest birthplace,
right back through the bottle neck
home, to wait for birth.
