She’s a hundred years
if she’s a day
and you want to tell her
that you love her
that she’s looking good, grand ole Maggie Smith, Judi Dench,
Quentin motherfucking Bryce
style good
like some beauteous dessicated
crone with a Taft-solid halo of hair
a good sweep of Maybelline and Mac
the swamp stench of Samsara or 4711.
You want to let her put
her featherlight hands
against your face
to feel the light and weakened pulse
through the liver spot skin and broken capillary lines
on the backs of her hands.
You want to hear the windchime
chattering of her tea cup
against the saucer
and tell her that you love her
you’ll have another Iced-Vo-Vo, please ma,
tell her
that she mated with Uranus
to make the Titans –
give her some god-given glories
to settle her
peptobismolic stools
the slurry of constipation and
compromise.
If you’re not going to take Melbourne
and you can’t stomach Sydney,
you can cheap out cheap meats bush city scatological
style to commemorate illusory history
make it a meeting place,
or the hollow between a woman’s breasts;
Menzies thought she was several suburbs in search of a city but
you want to tell her that you love her
even if you know that it’s almost a lie.
eleanor j jackson 