Monday, July 29, 2013

100th POST: all the feeling and half a poem


I had not known Cynthia’s hotel in Berlin
yet in this room on some strange and new looking street
you said, your skin. you said, you know?

you said very little
and for weeks after I tried to remember

everything you had said
the colour of the room

so different from home
where I was before Potsdamer Platz

before Singapore, before Lisboa
facing a river all alone at the plaza

I wrote to you then, thrice
and twice I stopped, I did not eat

I sent bowls untouched, sugar and fish
back,and to the sink’s hungry mouth

prayed you hungered for things equally, even then
when everything fell so fast, and together, like Harare

where you told me everything about you and music
and nothing about me, about we

you said you would find me
leaving with little more than memory and name

in the dream
you miss a flight

to come back to me
except it wasn’t a dream

somewhere a park bench remembers us
me giggling, you drunk with orange juice

whispering some little girl’s name
wondering at the tangled brightness of her hair

your eyes asking, do you remember
how we should have not met

and how walking back, you thought
it impossible that I had not done this before

how impossible is it now, wanderer
to roam free

for we who are together in this, somehow
tethered, though we are kept each time
for a little while, apart

With apologies and appreciation to Cynthia Cruz and her Hotel Berlin.

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