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Poetry

 Write for The Iranian

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.

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