| ESIABA IROBI Yale (for Fanny Singer) I keep thinking about you. Those eyes. Those wrists twirled in the halflight of the Union league Cafe like fine calligraphy. That intellect. Fierce, in its desire for life, like red wine on Chapel Street. Those breasts. Peeping like Hellenic masterpieces at the dumb, pretentious, museum crowd, forever fixated on free food. Fanny, I dreamt last night that we were somewhere in Paris, near the Seine, holding hands like two statuettes come to life, learning the geography of love in Hemingway’s moveable feast, along Avenue Montague, amidst the fake art shops and ceramic joys of a decrepit art world. (Have you seen the video: "Who the Fuck is Jackson Pollock?) There was jazz music in the air – Sur Les Quais Du Vieux Paris by Guy Lafette – I think, we were kissing, Then I woke up in Norwich, Vermont And remembered I had to attend the opening of an art exhibition at the Hood Museum in Dartmouth College New Hampshire. It was raining. Leaves of all colours were falling. So, I crossed the Connecticut River only in my mind, just sat there on my bed in the loft of 90 Huntley Street ruminating about you, listening to the leaves and raindrops dancing on the tiles above, wishing you were there in my arms, your head on my chest, your hair on my breast, your soft, eloquent, voice pouring your love and other sweet nothings into my ears like a slow obstinate honey. Yale was first published in Sentinel
Poetry Online in November 2007 Top |