Cars. Lightning. Rain


Cars. Lightning. Rain.
Your cheek on my hair.
Strawberries. White wine.
A mess in the back seat.

I drive you home
and we chat between thunder claps
about the fall of Crete.

A bare-breasted goddess
at ease, insouciant control,
holding firmly with feminine hands
two writhing snakes.

Secretly
      I imagine loving you
            like that,
my feet balanced
               apart,
hanging on without fear
      to any pet reptile between us.

But between kisses
    my breath tears like wet paper,
holding you in my arms
    is a tender farce or a blubbering High Mass;
I skid on my wrenched heart
    even more than this old car
               skids on the drenched road.

Cars. Lightning. Rain.
When you leave me
I watch every Minoan fresco
      ever painted and cherished
                   drip and burn.

First published in Overland 107—1987

Dorothy Porter

Dorothy Porter, acclaimed poet, lyricist and librettist, was twice shortlisted for Australia’s premier literary award, the Miles Franklin, and her verse novel The Monkey’s Mask is a modern Australian classic. Her work has been adapted for radio, stage and screen. She died in 2008, aged fifty-four.

More by Dorothy Porter ›

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