Pruja

(je suis guérie – praise God for your words to me)

 

Three years ago you told me

Your name meant rain,

You listened to mine, the sun,

(you said)

And here now, I’m here again.

 

It was grâce à the smell

Of your croissants that we met,

I remember following the scent,

It twisted through Perpignan’s alleyways

And past outside café chairs

Up to your front door -

The open door of your Palace Bakery

Where, no exaggeration,

People come every 5 minutes

To ask for your Rosquilles

And are so disappointed

When they are told there are no more.

 

Bon, alors, je vais les regarder de loin

Au moins

 

Words of the white haired lady

Travelling to see your white cakes.

And I’m here too, but to see you

(and smell the croissants)

And to surprise your face

As I walk into this space of yours-

Half in Perpignan, half in somewhere Paradise-

You double/quadruple take, embrace,

And I smell-in all the things

I love about being here,

The fourth wall window

Of paper forests and rivers and mountains

And the post card I sent you

Lent on the shelf,

Heidelberg’s kiss upon you

And you recite to me

Your latest poem: of forgiveness

And the beautiful spaces you discover,

Those mountain peaks we climbed,

That time.

 

You listen I talk

I listen you talk

And we walk through our new memories together

Your glasses are black with green stripes on them,

Keep you young, and white flour on their edges,

On your cheek.