Sport 37: Winter 2009
L.M. Wallace
L.M. Wallace
The Scarlet White-Hearted Little Queenie, Miss Elson
She wears red hearts
and shakes knuckles at us
the chair is too high
too flat
too hard
(and she can barely fit in)
We arrived on a whim
and now we're stuck baking
feeding
her enormous behind
No Ma'am
Yes Ma'am
It's rhubarb
we all say
and we long
we long for the road
Poison poison
in her pie
we whistle
we whistle and we hum
The City
Two men stood outside a sex shop.
An elderly woman sat on a bench,
picking food from the dentures in her hand.
Later, when night fell,
a girl on a corner asked another
What do you think about
before you go to sleep?
The city hushed and stopped the cars—
everyone wanted the answer.
Apartments 21 Rolleston Street
The strange man says hello.
He has not done that before today,
so there is a certain warmth
to the weather, you will see.
Engines hum. Cars queue
in an endless cigarette.
Someone has defrosted their freezer
and thrown the great chunks
of ice on the lawn.
People lower their eyes
around 21 Rolleston
so as not to see the insides of another,
or indeed, so that their own insides
cannot be stolen, which the police
have warned us of before
in small leaflets left
in our letterboxes.
Why we need a reunion
Something about long driveways,
wizened trees sprawling
overhead, the stew
and the yeasty bread. Country comes
from the stereo. I like it, I admit—
but only in this house.
At the lunch table it's
the same old stories—comforting
like the meal. What will you do?
My family's favourite question.
I try to think of a new answer,
one they might not mind.
Nana broke science.
She overpowered our genes—
wrestled them to the floor. Let's forget
about who got the coffee table
she made from shells. But who did?
Let's forget that.
I could have used a funny uncle
growing up. Call me 'Boss', he'd said,
and we did, but never saw him much.
Other than that, I can't mention names—
everything is touchy still.
We won't be here forever you know,
the gorse will eat the hills.