She dozes in the Metro. Sèvres-Babylone
under the Bon Marché, and Hôtel Lutetia,
requisitioned by Nazis, 1940. Nose in a book?—
alarms buzz—the train doors
are closing. She is lost in—what?—
was she reading,
was she looking at reflections
of reflections of other passengers
entering and exiting? Up above—?
Oysters in straw. Badinage. Wine, maybe iced
champagne. Lèche-vitrine lèche-cul… it’s not her station
yet.
I want this to happen in a second
on the page. But the mind keeps thinking other things.
Ironing half done in the kitchen.
Toaster on the blink. The alarm
a persistent stinging. Two girls, macaws
in a monkey puzzle jabbering, fall silent, gape—this is—
this was—
their station! Ayee! They leap—
opposite directions. The doors
are closing, will they, will they
not, get off? The buzzing—
stops. Whew! they’re out
safe on the platform, ten steps between them,
arms raised—gawps of disbelief, then shrieks
of laughter, and now—nanoseconds—
they fall into each other’s arms. Exeunt.
With a heave the train starts rolling.
A man refolds his Figaro, across
the aisle, this guy,
hair gelled into stiff peaks. Looks like
the icing mum made for that cake she baked,
soufflé-light, made from scratch
(mixes anathema)
eggs cracked, yolks set aside, whites whipped
‘until they form stiff peaks,’ sugar
folded in. . . Angel Food. ‘More,’ we
plead, holding out our plates. ‘More cake.’
Gell Guy plucks an earbud, a blue- or black-
berry, from the bush of his ear, and song
leaks into the train, picking up speed now,
leaping through tunnels like
trains of thought leaping through our brains.
Our eyes meet, we laugh out loud together—
those two girls—we think—we both are thinking—
what fantastic comic timing! Happy Days! Then
we’re in the next lit station, Rue de Rennes.
© Beverley Bie Brahic
from Hunting the Boar (London, CBeditions, 2016)