Third coast brunch
By Ali Mohajer
August 16, 2000
The Iranian
Muriel sat watching in the corner,
playing with the paper,
hiding in the pages.
She's a sad one. Always
wearing black or brown.
I didn't want to meet her there
almost didn't care to see her ever.
But when she kissed me welcome
the coil of her lips
buzzed on my cheek.
So firm and lively
on such a languid mope.
Her melancholy draws me in
poppy fumes that rise from silent lips,
musky cloying vapors, dark and secret,
promising to warm me now
a little.
Muriel is ugly. Thin and dark,
all nose and eyes
and black long hair.
"Hello, darling."
"Hello." I say, and "Good to see you."
I see my words slip lightly
through her hair and linger at her ear.
I feel her breathe me in,
and almost just before I filter through
she pushes back and holds me hand to elbow,
smiles and starts to talk
like I'm a stranger.
It's funny;
the first three words I say will get her going,
and all the rest are useless.
Now
I see the prints
that distant joy has left
around the corners of her eyes.
Others try to hide their marks;
Muriel just waits for hers
to fade away.
Who knows why we're so dull
together. Different worlds, and nothing
pulling hard
enough between.
