Girl with Black Hair

Girl with Black Hair

I am sitting in the Chinatown bar,
thinking always, only of you, your sad voice
on the phone. And without warning
I see you walking towards me,
in denim skirt and army boots,
your black hair bouncing as you stride.

My heart stops. I lurch to my feet
bewildered, for one ecstatic second
half-believing all this pain an evil dream,
a dreadful mockery, and that you have come
to meet me there as once you did.
So long ago, so many griefs ago.

And then, of course, I realize
it is not you, it is some Javanese
resembling you only in dress and short black hair:
her skin is dark and coarse, her every movement
graceless and awkward. Her dark eyes
meet mine briefly, and she passes on her way.

Stunned, I sit down, my hands trembling,
my heart racing with the suddenness of you.
I must leave this city and find somewhere
there are no girls with short black hair.

Admiralty
10th April 2006.