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.