for Frances Odette
Frankie demands fruit she can’t reach.
We spring it to earth, where it’s hidden, sun-warm,
Leaves appear on the kitchen floor.
She looks to the flowers,
white and yellow, and to me, and points –
The blossom in my fingers
smells of orange, or is it
that my fingers now
smell of orange?
She lifts her body, nose-first as if weightless,
to the half-crushed blooms, eyes closed, and sniffs –
and fear everything.
- Greg McLaren 2015
A short bio: Greg McLaren is a Sydney-based poet, critic and teacher. His recent books are After Han Shan (Flying Islands, 2012) and The Kurri Kurri Book of the Dead (Puncher & Wattmann, 2007). A new collection, Australian ravens, is forthcoming with Puncher & Wattmann in 2015.