Gish Poem by Ross Mackay

Where way down east,
broken blossoms in her hair,
in the birth of a nation,
the intolerance in her stare-
that green-eyed devil.
Her pearl toes over the prairies,
sat next to a cradle,
playing a lewd Ophelia rocking,
and falling on the ice-caps,
holding the lady and the mouse.
Forget the hunchback
weeping in the New York hat,
hold her grubby little hand
cutting against the gramophone.
What a smile for me,
just one more time, if only.
Just for the true heart,
just for the timely interception,
just for the upturned glass,
or our house we built on the sand.
I'm here to be an extra?
A fragment of a cream suit,
the frown and the gun,
the broken fragility and eternity,
and lamenting rags.
Chrome visions of visions in ode
and vaudeville.
Ageing pianos on street corners
begging for coins.
There she is, in the palace.
Her voice-
like an axe through the cabinet.
Her stare- like a viper's,
the backward ticking clock
and the plaques above houses.
The darkening of the wedding bells
and forever silent- the turn of her head.