Across the road the decorators have finished;
your flat has net curtains again
after all these weeks, and a ‘To Let’ sign.
I can only think of it as a tomb,
excavated, in the end, by
explorers in facemasks and protective spacesuits.
No papers, no bank account, no next of kin;
only a barricade against the landlord,
and the police at our doors, early, with questions.
What did we know? Not much: a Lebanese name,
a soft English voice; chats in the street
in your confiding phase; the dancing.
You sat behind me once at midnight Mass.
You were Orthodox, really; church
made you think of your mother, and cry.
From belly dancer to recluse, the years
and the stealthy ballooning of your outline,
kilo by kilo, abducted you.
Poor girl, I keep saying; poor girl –
no girl, but young enough to be my daughter.
I called at your building once, canvassing;
your face loomed in the hallway and, forgetting
whether or not we were social kissers,
I bounced my lips on it. It seemed we were not.
They’ve even replaced your window frames. I still
imagine a midden of flesh, and that smell
you read about in reports of earthquakes.
They say there was a heart beside your doorbell
upstairs. They say all sorts. They would –
who’s to argue? I don’t regret the kiss.
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