There’s a live radio version from 2012 in this interview.
Fly free, I said. I
wanted to fly.
On my back, wings
have grown: their bones
from structures of thought, their sinews
from lines of ideas, their muscles
from patterns of rhythm, their layered feathers
from notes and rests
Here on the ground
with a child, a lover, a friend,
a collective, a tribe,
I hold, I am held
but the thing that calls me is away, away,
out there, up high
I wear two garments:
one of coloured stripes
for talk, community, we,
our food, our bodies earthed,
the joy of your smile;
one of black lace
for silence, autonomy, I
my black wings in the black sky
the joy of the mind
I stand in the highest place I can find
and flap my wings, but—
to abandon my child?
To leave my friend lonely?
To never again sit by the fire
of your skin?
I curl on the ground,
wings limp,
weeping.
Love is a cage! I say. It’s a chain!
“I am on a long leash,”
says a married
poet. A leash?
Heel! Quiet! Down!
Good dog. Wag your tail.
Here’s a treat. Now curl up
and dream
of hunting.
In my dreams, I can use
the wings. I hang
from my wings, alone
in my skull and ribcage, flying
where I please …
but
I need the hand
reaching for mine,
the other voices,
your shining skin.
So
how can I fly?
Family
is a cage, flesh
is a chain, love
is a leash!
I can’t resolve it! I can’t, I can’t!
I can’t see anything but blackness and turmoil.
I go into the streets, walk here, walk there.
The passers-by
do not notice me.
I go into my house. I sit
with open hands.
Something comes in and touches me,
flesh and wings,
flies away.
The clouds are blurred across the wet-paint sky.
My garden is a flowering field of weeds.
I am pacing and crouching,
ranting and weeping,
making fists and upturned palms.
On the third day, the voice
in the sky,
in my head,
whispers,
It’s not a cage!
It’s not a chain!
A leash is the wrong metaphor!
The right metaphor
is a long elastic cord
between lovers,
between friends,
between parent and child,
between the I
and the smile—
a long elastic cord!
Fly free, I said. I
wanted to fly. I thought
I needed to cut
all the cords to get
enough distance
but if the cord is sufficiently long and elastic
I can fly right out to space,
to Mars,
Mars stark and beautiful.
Mars is probably far enough.
If love is a cage
plan your escape
If love is a chain
find your boltcutters
If love is a leash
bite hard
But if love is a long elastic cord
and we keep it supple,
flex it,
trust it,
we can fly free—
free, each of us,
separate yet connected
and our flying will be truly free,
a flight without fear—
because if love is a long elastic cord
there’s always
a way home.
From lemon oil
Jackson 