Return to Mercedes Webb-Pullman


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.



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



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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