In the Maison Rouge

Leontia Flynn

In the Maison Rouge

 

In the Maison Rouge

where soberly I curate

my memories of youth

in the gallery of my mind

 

this final expo

frames and explicates

room by white room

the human wish for flight.

 

‘Le Rêve de Voler

is the dream of freedom’.

Jets, sails, chutes,

winged bikes and feathered shoes:

 

the kick and thrust

out from the daily round,

from the grind, from the window

flung absurdly wide

 

where the primed imagination

crosses its inner limit

its social limit

out of some locked room

 

in Amherst or in Dordogne,

from its sources of meaning,

poised and intent

like a sexual leap of faith

 

then the body flung too

absurdly into space

down all of the exiled

flight paths of old Europe

 

all rules suspended

in the chaos between wars

buoyant and up-lit

all ballast cast off at last

 

to sail triumphant

over the glittering cities

our attention drilled

on the whistling horizon

 

on the cauldron of morning

on the end-point that’s laid down

with each ascent:

like a railway terminus

 

at dawn in Astapovo

or that freezing flat

at dawn in Fitzroy Road –

for pictured too

 

is the smashed contraption

and the broken broom

is one streak of smoke

across the sky’s blue flag

 

is this line of blood

trailed down the obstructing wall.

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