Everything Must Be Filled
Everything Must be Filled
Cavalaire-sur-Mer, June 1945
We lay on the rough sandy oval rug,
A sign outside our window with an electric arrow
Pointed through the window perfectly
To your navel
Which I kissed
Down to the hair line.
You smelled of seaweed and sand.
I rested my chin on
The soft spot above bone
And remembered
How peaceful
A resting place this was.
As I pleased you
I saw a shadow stop under the door-
It is okay to listen.
Anyone can listen now.
We had not yet shared names.
After, we went below to the café.
We smoked the unapologetic cigarettes of your country,
Pouring out our words
Like two waterfalls,
Filling the same void.
We sat on precarious, worn stools,
On chapped skin
Until the late afternoon sea breeze
Pushed us in.
At dusk
We lay on the coiled, tired mattress springs,
Hips and toes touching.
We fell asleep
And shared dreams
And went back and forth
Into the other’s body.
We awoke,
Jolted back,
Startled to have lost
Who we were in the other.
We shared our names then
And pulled up the starchy sheet
And blanket worn thin
From so many strangers.
I am sure you repeated my name
As I did yours.
The noises came in
And filled us-
horns, laughter, a yell,
clinking of coins, glasses and heavy porcelain plates meeting
and the sound
of restless, searching air.
We listened and listened
To catch
Where the world’s heart had stopped
And when it had started,
Again.
Copyright © Douglas Brown | Year Posted 2017
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