Picture it: landing in my garden,
one windy Monday,
too small to be a plane,
too tall to be a car,
and the engine is powered entirely by rose-petals.
A woman gets out: Remedios Varo, painter.

This can take you anywhere, she says,
stroking the fuselage like it's a cat.
Anywhere you want.
Countries that aren't invented yet,
where all the birds glide along the boulevards
smelling of pineapple, or jasmine,
and symphonies are performed outdoors,
gratis.

I want to write poems
as surprising as chameleons,
as strong as a drumbeat,
I say, forgetting suddenly all about the laundry.

She says, Climb in.

Sheila Hamilton's pamphlet is The Monster in the Rose Garden (Flarestack).

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