We sit in a cafe on the cloverleaf
watching the rain pour down the glass,
trying to make sense of the phrase
Réussir son bébé etched on a billboard.
I say I feel out of my depth and going down,
you as usual pretend not to hear. I find
myself counting the panes in a half-circle
window (there are 32) trying to rid myself
of me. A violet curtain of rain closes us in.
We seek fortification in a bitter olive, chunks
of stale bread washed down with thin red wine,
slices of green mango. We wear the afternoon
hard, waiting for a single shaft of light to fracture
the gloom settled between us like a surly teenager.
Later you grip my arm to break the muteness;
I spring to attention. Sentences begin
to unfurl like fiddlehead ferns; they lie
on the table, tightly coiled fronds. I choose
one to remember you by.