Sighting

Rain eats the paper bag

she carries from the Chinese grocer,

bottom collapses,

strange plum-like fruit escapes,

little yellow suns rolling downhill

into the foggy harbour.

She hasn’t slept in days — I know

those black halos, tobacco hair.

I walk uphill to her, having planned

this rescue a million times.

She questions being an artist,

her envious glares as

exotic cars like ocean liners

sail streets to palatial islands.

Her with old rubber boots, broken bag.

No. She laughs. Happily.

She knows who she is.

Light is orange.

Red.

Stop.

Wait.

Rickshaw.

Bus.

Bus.

Ambulance.

Eternity.

Green.

Hurry.

 

A million new people in the spot

she stood a moment ago —

none of them,

her.

Published online January 01 2010.


At the Root of Voice cover image

This piece was published in ‘At the Root of Voice,’ the Winter 2010 issue of CV2.

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