PORTOBELLO DUSK

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I don’t mention how the evening empties the streets

to a hush, or how the warmth of your body calls mine

closer on the bench, in the manicured public gardens

 

where fountains launch arcs from stone fish. I don’t pause

to revere swallows or phone-lines slicing curves against

pink clouds, or linger by the small Italian restaurant

 

with its candles collared in wax, or wear the dress

that cinches me to hourglass. I’ll leave the red lipstick

in the drawer: it swells everything to full volume. I beat

 

loudly enough as it is, friend, though I pretend to forget,

like a creature born wild and brought to cage or glass.

We knew lushness here once, evenings swept clear

 

like countertops lovers rut on, all other plans clattering

to the floor. Now we walk past the bar that emptied

around us, the wall that left itself in the back of my coat,

 

but I don’t need to point out the stops. You know them,

your face in profile all night, as if blinkered from the look

in my eyes you remember being unable to refuse,

 

especially not with benches and pink skies and cool

empty streets, and the melody of that old love playing

its faint music around us, inviting us to retrace its steps.

 

-Jasmine Cooray