Be Malcolm Wall

  Your invitation is calligraphed, embossed on creamy stock;
  it’s very grand. I turn it in my hands to seek that other thing –
I’m ten again in Hawkesbury. I’ve just come back from lunch.
See, in the yard, there’s Malcolm, sleeve-gartered, loyal friend, ginger
freckles popping, carroty curls wet with sweat in the fury of boy play.
Who’d know Malcolm’s flannel shirts were tartans he could name,
his lunch egg-salad triangles, trimmed crusts and fine-chopped dill?
He shares with me a double desk, and lunch, and knowledge of the clans.
Just now, his eyes ablaze, his face is glazed, there’s battle in the yard.
Their weapon snow, their fort is ice, they’re in the thrall of war.

And I, I’ve slipped my house in Mothers’ high heeled boots, black suede
with furry cuffs and rhinestone clips. The plush of them, the sparkle.
By now I’m hobbling recklessly, and at the gate I see
that this is not the kind of notice I desire. I was young

to learn the comfort of conformity. I prize originality; I’d go to the wall
for traits I think unique, but not in garb. Who’d want to be décolletage
and pearls, swimming in watery shimmer, when others are doing earth
in burberry and cashmere? Who’d want to be the only dirndl
in a stand of pencil skirts?

Then, there was mercy in the world. I was spared by Malcolm Wall,
who took the fort – a slippery gambit – affording the moment to make
an awkward passage just to the north of the battle line.
Spared me snowballs. Spared me taunts. Be Malcolm Wall.
Spare me mistakes. Say what to wear.