THE SECRET LIFE OF MARY POPPINS
The children finally asleep, door locked,
the chimneysweep bound and gagged
in a hall closet, she pours the acrylic colors
of her costume down the bathroom sink,
flushes the cartoon penguins down the toilet.
On the narrow bed she unlocks
her lacquered hair and wipes the happy paint
off her face, rinses the flowers
out of her dresses, pulls the songs
one by one from her ears like string.
She pops the umbrella open, its black dome
a new ceiling pulled low against her
borrowed universe: a London room, iron bars
on the windows, a symphony of sirens
and car alarms, heroin selling like medicine.
With a stolen screwdriver and pair of pliers
she pries open the cemented window,
looses the screws on the grate. Her nightgown
rising in wings around her, the night air
blowing her fingers blue,
she climbs onto the ledge, stands
with shaking knees against the open frame,
clears her eyes of damp hair and dancing frogs, jumps.
Oh, don’t worry, she won’t fall; she can’t
(believe me, she’s tried). Every night
the wind just pulls her up
in its own dark umbrella, lifts her
back into her room, replaces the bars, repairs
the cut telephone line, unlocks the closet.
At breakfast the children drone their terrible songs.
The chimneysweep comes calling again
with his ridiculous hat, his suburban dreams;
her employers pat her hand, put sugar cubes
like ampoules of morphine into her tea.
What can she do but put her head down, sing.
(from The Grammar of Nails; photograph by Isabel)
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{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }
I am impressed with that photo, Isabel!
It is cool, and that is said not just because I am your grandfather. It would easily rank as one of the “Enterprise” photos we ask our professional photographers to be on the lookout for to use in special places in the newspaper here.
Like one of my favorites of several years ago of a person strolling through the local park one afternoon with a brightly covered parasol to protect her from the snowflakes.
Sayonara!