What I thought of a recent ex-girlfriend
once (24) I wrote a note to this girl
I believed I was falling in love with
(never met – I’d read her poems)
asking (as a contemporary)
if she’d quote blurb for a set
that I’d wrote. I was a wreck
when I sent it and a wreck
while I waited – then she said
that she’d do it, then I didn’t
send them on. I was so much
in love with her I felt that I couldn’t
let her see what I thought
of my recent ex-girlfriend.
this was toronto. she was
from there; I’d picked up her book –
she was gone. I lived there 2 years
and then left it as well. probably
won’t ever go back but I
loved it – the flame
of the streetcars, the shine
of their tracks on spadina.
walking up bloor street
often, as if I had somewhere
to be that was out of down-
town. watching the squirrels.
drink afternoon sun. anyway,
a couple of months ago
watching a movie, I saw someone quoting
a poem which sounded familiar.
turned out it was hers, although not
one I’d read. sometimes you develop an eye.
The abseiler
legs which rotate
like electric and fan-
driven belt-
running motors.
the spider
by my head
coming halfway down
her line. I admit,
it’s somewhat shocking
to see her so
suddenly, and once
I would have killed her –
but then copped
the cause of flies.
instead, I watch
as shape slinks
downward, dangling perhaps
a foot away. it goes without spin,
lowering gently, like an abseiler
done with cleaning windows, leaning
and riding the line. at its back
one foot clings
to steady it – something
which I’d never seen
before. and the mandible
stays close and tight, and the arms rotate
for balance. I watch,
wishing rocks
for such control.
Curled like a fern
curled like a fern
on the side
of the bedsheet. I’m too
hot, and now
I am not hot
enough. no comfort
in knowing there’s water
beside me. if I drink
then I’ll just need
to piss. my knees
are uncomfortable. this mattress
is useless. and behind me
the dog keeps
on moving.
Illustration: Subarnarekha Pal
