It’s a soppy Monday morning —
you’re wet with rose water, and
eyedrops have left prints on
the sacks under your eyes —
photocopies
are under way,
copies of mornings to come
as if you could copy the future
(but you’re pretty sure you can).
It’s a dirty Monday morning —
your glasses are chalk-white, and
you have to roll your eyes to see him
walk in &
forget his code
with the puppiest look —
right away you’d adopt a dog
next time you’re allowed to dream
(in your office, on the floor).
It’s a crazy Wednesday morning —
your hands feel empty without coffee, and
you’d have grabbed his – instead you
only said bonjour,
but your step was sure
as you ran upstairs, racing
after the trace of him & shame
of letting your dream out of your mouth
(but maybe his is close too).
It’s a blurry Wednesday evening —
you’re clearing your ears of student voices,
practicing your own je m’appelle
in your corridor head,
till he rushes out
& your blood rushes too —
eyebrows lifted like chapeaux,
as if you could copy a pretty man’s smile
(but you can, of course).
Hiroshimem 