MimiMimi calls me, she has clouds for hair,
so like her mothers except she is less
fragile and her words weave whispers in the air.
I will take the ferry and she will meet me,
we'll have lunch then drive,
not in that battered peugeot that featured
her mother and me in our escapades.
Mimi has gone for german technology
with a touch of japanese conformity
and the roads zip by,
we wave to Mont St Michel
but we don't stop to buy the chocolate shells.
There is a trick at the cemetery
Yoshi stands, a giant with giraffe legs.
He cups my face, all I see are lips,
I slip my hand into his.
How many years has it been?
Mimi stands, clouds framing her face,
she could be Madeleine, her mother
time is endless in a moment.
Yoshi declares underhand tactics
and something about a mountain.
Later in a spare bed in a new build
I spray a little scent onto pulse spots,
thank a presence that I am still here.
Mimi makes a carbonara, she splashes
cognac into glasses and we raise a toast
to absent friends and lovers,
to memories good and bad
while a sauce bubbles and burns
Yoshi's lips are soft on mine
I see tears unshed in his eyes.
Poetry by Elle
Read 377 times
Written on 2017-01-07 at 18:56
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