Around the world
in only five different expressions,
inflections,
intonations!
In the backseat of a dark cab
in Portland,
Oregon. Go forth with stocky peaks!
Shallow, low, humdrum,
drum,
ba dum, da dum
peaks that move with each beat.
You come home to your man
you rush in, brisk
out of breath
give him that smirk
not really a smirk because there’s no joy behind it
or irony, no self-knowledge
maybe some self-awareness, or
the semblance that you wish
what happened didn’t. Where
your man opens the door and gives you
a real smirk
reading it like there’s truth to the words on the page
but the only subtext is grilled cheese.
Waiting for grilled cheese
and the gradual joy that grows in him
when he sees you
knowing in two minutes,
a white steaming box awaits him
still you rush in, give that empty
smirk-smile: the one they don’t have a name for
because behind it
is the man who followed you home,
who yelled “Ladies” to which there’s no sober
way to punctuate.
Not a period,
or a moment, when
you last felt safe in your body. Bouncing
in that denim dress that he saw and yelled
“Ladies”
you turned around
saw the sweet, whistling face
a man swinging
his bag in his hand,
plastic catching
the air.
All he wanted was a smoke.
All you could provide?
A quicken in your step
in that international dance
that Pidgin-y artform
the one you and her are fluent in.
Step, pointe, bend, flesh
Non, nein, nada, arrête!
Rush in, look up at their man,
half-dressed
en penser au fromage.
A life spent waiting
fast steps
to get away
and away
but you can’t step fast enough
or close the door hard enough
you give a tight lipped smile,
its meaning lost in translation.
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