Vir­ginia Son­net

The Weekend Australian - Review - - Books - Caitlin Mal­ing

I will not write the Pene­lope poem. I will not write of weav­ing, of wife­hood, of the bore­dom that comes when your job is just to sit wait­ing to be de­sired in the right way. The moon, yes, is slung past the moun­tains in a curve, night mak­ing me a cloak of moths if I stand un­der the light too long. Each inch of my back has wings. Who is to say I am not the God’s one? Who is to say I am not be­come a flame? That with these wings I might leap, light up each tree, turn the ridged pines to can­dles flickering. I of­fer up noth­ing. I keep my name and this fire I bring just to burn.

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