By Jane Frank
The wall of the gallery café is teal, patterned with flowers in fuchsia and amber,
fallen blossoms musk. The sky is embossed with deciduous leaves,
crosshatched with high rises & hardboiled clouds.
I needed the gallery today:
a map of the world on a horse’s back
fish swimming in black water
a date palm rolled back in an oyster tin—
fluorescent silver—
birthday cake on the moon (no candles)
silent typewriter arms with metal bones
a beetle in a bride’s veil
Adam & Eve in a wasteland under a begrimed sky,
blowtorched, with x-rays and totemic trees
scarring high white walls
The pool in the gallery’s winter garden
sleeps on a bed of stones
so dreams sink
sculptures cover their breasts or raise their arms
a pulse of yellow pods drop on to the water’s surface
& make thin disappearing words
rotary beater fountains spin cold minutes
as a faint echo of corridor whales grieve audibly for their oceans
from up at the museum
Frozen sunshine is on the menu
I write in my decomposition book,
watch the pods floating
to the bottom of the pond, breaking up
Dead organics are eroding all around me
& only carbon dioxide, water and minerals will remain in the end
Love doesn’t decompose in the way the leaves do:
it might ebb and flow
but I could see your pale eyes
staring back at me from the sky in the Hans Heysen.
Note: The title is a direct quote from eminent human geographer Yi-Fu Tuan
