I saw you fade from doorways, saw you broken loose on a train.
Carrying brown bags overflowing with food,
I asked how you could have left with no goodbye.
You were young as when I held the sad Italian girl
in your window, words from underwater gripping me
as if I were slippery. I meant to see you off
at the airport, but when you let go, we were on a plane
lifting off over water, my bags gone, purse, all money.
When we landed in Paris, my clothes disappeared.
Leaving the airport, we walked down stone steps
into the city - you wore a long black coat like the angels,
holding your left arm around my body, dressing
me, right hand below my heart. You said we'd see Rodin's
knee, but we stopped at the house of your friends --
the son broke spaghetti into boiling water, the mother crazy
and gray, alone on the fenced-in grass, her husband
just watched. The daughter gave me a sapphire dress,
her grandmother's who she loved and missed,
soft cloth in a tissued box. You somewhere else
in the house, but your hands still covered me.
I heard your voice, and said I was afraid of not finding my way
back through the streets, the terminal, all that language
and water. Looking up from the sapphire blur, you were
next to me on a train home, arms around my waist, hands
meeting at my hip, coat sleeves soft, black feathers. |
