Good Omen

We study other languages, the signs and mirrors,

so that we can inhabit the conversations of people

we've never met. Lava comes down from the side of the

mountain: we say lava, in our original tongue, and

no one knows what we mean. The fire brigade is

waiting for the flames to die out at the end of

the tunnel. I see you, cornered at the edge of a

sentence, like a German verb, immune to criticism,

open to judgement, a blue shadow igniting a wall

of flame. In the empty restaurant you say: "My

tongue is on fire," but the only lights are the

flickering candles on every table. The contortionist

brought the audience to its feet, but we weren't

watching. We decided we could only do one thing

at a time without becoming an object of concern for

those who were observing us from a distance. Nights

without sleep, endless stamina, a hundred laps,

the long days ahead filled with words like "opposite

attract" spelled out in billboard letters across

the horizon. This is the correct spelling, the

proper verb ending, the appropriate declension.

We can tutor each other at odd hours while nervously

fingering the buttons and zippers of our shirts and

blouses. This flame is for safekeeping, the tail

of a comet as it crosses the sky.

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Jul/Aug 1996
Provided by ProQuest Information and Learning Company. All rights Reserved