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Linda Chase

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I could tell you

Would you like to see my photos, read my poems,
imagine you had been with me on the fishing boat?
Would you like to hear about the sting-ray
swimming beside me, close to the shore,
about the body of a young man burning in the fire,
the yellow bellied black snake in the bush,
the night I slept on the beach without any covers,
not even wrapped in anyone’s arms?

Would you like to meet the naked piano player
who played Schubert beside the open window,
the man with no hands, the girl with six fingers,
the mouse that ran across the keyboard
as I typed an e-mail message to you?
The Sikh in the street, shouting, his arms in the air,
I am your help! I am your help!

I can hardly believe it myself, that I jumped
between the carriages of a moving train
without any guard rails, without a proper step.
I drove a third rate car through a flooded river,
made love to a man in the tropics, like in the movies,
mosquito net, ceiling fan, bamboo shutters and sweat.
A man slept beside my door, keeping candles lit
on the stairs to help me find my way home.
There were geckos and frogs in the lotus pond.

Oh yes. There are stories I could tell you,
but I’m home now, busy parking my car
in front of Band on the Wall on Swan Street.
I set the alarm with a tiny remote control.

 

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