Judy Garland et al surface & turn
from fields of poppy & asbestos
in the direction of Oz—impression
of shining: light curved in painted
emerald columns that give height, heft
to this lofty horizon (I check
that they are poppies, not
the tulips of my oma’s
birthplace frescos as imagined: kitsch
of Klompen—shoes of alder, willow or
poplar woods; only of course
there was also, and most of all
hunger—the reason for her enduring
attentions to stray cats, heft
of vegetable peelings pared
away to waste— Also yes, she is
Judy not Audrey reposing
in the dazzle of poppies
& gentle sift of carcinogen: see
with what tenderness this imitation
of snow caresses planes
of brow, jaw, cheek—arc
of upturned nasal cartilage & bone; how
artful its mimicry of icicles furring.
When I explain my oma’s doll
proportions, persistent hungers
of childhood & war,
my friend says, ‘just
like Audrey Hepburn!’ Later
to learn how child Audrey,
malnourished, would eat
tulip bulbs. Oma has planted
her garden unruly with colour:
a riot of zinnias, heat of ruby/
orange/magenta, and in this
there is a fullness that exceeds
the cinch of any ballet dancer’s
waist—the veneration imposed
upon the deprivations
of wraiths & waifs.
Jo Langdon’s poetry collections are Snowline (Whitmore Press, 2012) and Glass Life (Five Islands Press, 2018). Her recent writing is also published or forthcoming in places such as Antipodes, Island, Meanjin, Overland, and Southerly. In 2018 she was a fellow of the Elizabeth Kostova Foundation’s Sozopol Seminars, and in 2020 her fiction placed in the Newcastle and Olga Masters short story awards. Jo currently lives and works on unceded Wadawurrung land in Geelong, Victoria.
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