new zealand electronic poetry centre
 

S U E   K I N G - S M I T H




Flight
   

A plane plunders
pure horizon with
rips of plumage that
froths at edges.
You left
often. Crying is
for melancholics, for
flaccid old women
reminiscing, for taloned
erasures of marriage, for
grazed children. I don’t count
amongst their number,
or didn’t then.
Arrivals and departures
punctured holes in endless
days that rose and fell
through seasons.
You were grit
but no pearls grew. Gifts
of doll-sized toiletries and
pirate-eye patches and PanAm pins  
lost meaning when you failed to transit.
Suitcases felled on beds emptied
Nikes and Hershey kisses. I wrote
to you once, on flimsy airmail
paper not strong enough. Winged ships
in the night, you rip threaded
clouds of leaving,
still.




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Last updated 26 April, 2006