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Caliban
by Gail Cleare
And you,
you high flyer,
cocky bastard
on your fancy trapeze,
up to all your flashing tricks
as usual.
Swing me up
with a sparkling thrust
then shoot me
crashing down again,
seagull cracking clam
on white rock.
But even Aeolus
serves his own
lightning lord,
so you must sip
a special
poltergeist hell.
Beware!
A fingertip touch
on my lip
could infect,
pluck you out of those
gymnastic heights
and wrench you retching
into the sea.
I am slow and
bulbous
but
I have my
scullery to scour.
Go fly your silly stunts
around some other
mother.
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