Patrick McCauley

A Bunch of Flowers for Saint Valentine’s Day

Sweet breath of Heaven.

You have written again in Italian

the beloved has no gender role

nor race nor age nor woolly hole.

it was a rider riding by

who sat with me one wet july

and wept with me in the deepest dark

and lay with me through the florid night.

Though I will agree I saw your face

last night upon the curtain lace.

The billabong was dry as dust

the moon was swelled with fleshy lust.

Beloved begone, you murder me

but stay tonight a little while.

Come to my bed you lusty girl

let me whisper in your fur.

Patrick McCauley

My Country

Am I gay? said the Oz

or am I a lazy boy?

Do you believe, he was asked.

Do you really believe beyond

the evidence of your eyes

beyond your smell

beyond what you hear or read

beyond even your memory or through mind?

Do you believe in us, Oz?

she was asked again

(for he was also she)

if you cannot we

will not let you in.

You must say yes to this

simple dictation test though

we know this is not your first

language—you must agree

to compassion and equity

that we are all complete

this tongue in which we speak

is absolutely quite unique.

This black book contains

our history.

Read it carefully

there are things to which

you must agree.

We stole the children.

We put mates first … and Oz,

we were dogs

in this china shop.

Yet we learned to burn in alcohol

our discriminating minds.

We huddled in the outback towns

drinking cheap red wine.

We cringed in our banishment

like strangers in another land.

Do you believe, Oz?

that we are very very

very bad.

For if you do we’ll let you in

but only if you agree to live in cities by the sea.

Patrick McCauley