toss your scarf to the gyromancer, dearest.
step the circumference, spin till you stumble,
there is fortune in your footfall to divine.
go now: leave this town, be a dervish
whirl your rings like Saturn. you are liquid matter,
though your heft casts a pall in the sky.
I want to run away from this town and become a whirling dervish; I have dreams of it every night. Imagine me, painted pretty, aloft with my magicians hat of scarves, whirling like Saturn’s rings, like Jupiter.
I’d make believe that I was solid, I’d play sky-father and patron deity, but in truth I’d be composed of exhaled hookah clouds, lighter than a wink across a sandstorm.
I’d smell like the smoke of cherry bombs. I’d taste like liquorice and burnt sugar. When you kissed me, you would see eternity.
When I kissed you, you’d understand
the secret scriptures
of the underside of the moon.
Have I ever told you about rainbow trout? There is a disease in their young called whirling disease. The parasites eat their brains and chew their skeletons, until they cripple over for eternity, chasing their own tails forever.
Forgetting themselves, forgetting their futures and the merry leap upstream.
Whirling whirling whirling…
The parasites are hard to kill. They can survive in minus-twenty degree temperatures for three months at a time. It’s hard to quit the urge. I can feel my own parasites begging for a twirl, for a spin.
Close your eyes.
Stretch your hands out. Lean backwards.
Don’t worry, I’ll hold on tight.
Remember when we did that in the field? When we recalibrated gravity so there was a new centre dwelling at the moment our hands touched? We were weightless forces, orbiting our hands, our hands holding.
Back then, I believed if you let go I would tumble to the moon.