Itaqui

2003-04-24 - 12:27 p.m.

a dark apartment in france

faces coming and going

phone cord stretched taut across the room

to the windows...

tall, creaking casement windows

with thick glass

and ancient white paint peeling off the frames...

trying to hold the phone so you could hear

the bacchanal below.

your ear, your voice long distance from Itaqui

why you were there and why you called I'll not know.

The first I'd heard of Itaqui was when you whispered it in my dreaming.

Watching the people in the streets below I wanted to join, dancing there in just high heels

because it seemed the thing to do.

The souvenir memory to file of this place.

I slipped on a long coat, streaming open, and black leather pumps and wound down the stone spiral stairs to the open nighttime air. When I came to the courtyard with the iron gates, you were waiting there.

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