You Call Him Dr Jones! October 13, 2011

I’m reading at You Call Him Dr Jones!, a celebration of everyone’s favourite whip-cracking, gun-slinging, hoochie-smooching imaginary archaeologist. I’m also in charge of procuring eyeballs for the eyeball soup cocktails. But here’s my poem, a pantoum based on the scene on the boat where Marion forces Indy to ask her to kiss him. Sigh.

It’s Not The Years, Honey, It’s the Mileage

            (for the 30^th anniversary of Raiders of the Lost Ark)

 

There are places where it doesn’t hurt:

elbow, forehead, eyelid, lips.

If you won’t ask me, I’ll make you ask me -

a kiss felt in a million mouths.

 

Elbow, forehead, eyelid, lips.

One kiss used, then lost, then sold to a museum,

a kiss felt in a million mouths,

a story with sequels and sub-text.

 

One kiss used, then lost, then sold to a museum.

I’m not the first girl to have travelled with pirates -

a story with sequels and sub-text.

Sometimes we all go out in a borrowed dress.

 

I’m not the first girl to have travelled with pirates -

Scrapes and grazes, bullet-nicks.

Sometimes we all go out in a borrowed dress,

a lovely moon-rock coloured dress.

 

Scrapes and grazes, bullet-nicks.

If you won’t ask me, I’ll make you ask me.

A lovely moon-rock coloured dress.

There are places where it doesn’t hurt.

Advertisement