What To Say, an Aria

by Matthew Thorburn

Should I mention the German students passing
a joint in the john, how plentiful the wine,
red and white, how my cup runneth over
onto my pant leg? Should I say a block off
Woodward as the snow swirled down I walked up
two flights with B.W. out of the simple need
to while away the night with people I hardly knew?
That my reserve was as gooey as the brie,
still soft in the center, with a scattering of almonds
and raspberries (where did they find raspberries
in January?) tart as dark sparks on my tongue?
Shall I confess this Italian woman, her cheeks rosy
with wine, her accent country-thick, has my heart
as soon as she says bruschetta? That the olives tasted,
well, like olives, the pits I spit discreetly in a napkin?
Should I make it clear that music isn't the food of love,
food is? Dried cherries and pine nuts, a crumbly
sliver of Roquefort on a sweet, biscuity cracker?
Say I overheard someone say, "What we're talking about
are apples and oranges; we haven't made a fruit salad
of it yet"? Describe how I stood in the doorway, half in
and half out of the room, reminiscing with B.W.
about New York mornings? Coffee light, egg on a roll,
the cool darkness of the avenues in the early a.m.?
Should I tell you I love NYC in June, though I'll pass
on that Gershwin tune? (I prefer Byrd, Billy Strayhorn?)
Say I saw Talitha putting together frames
at a gallery in Birmingham? That Natasha is back
from Madagascar, living in New Mexico, doing what
I don't know? Or mention casually how we--
Theresa and me--decided to be "just
friends"? (She decided? I agreed?) Say to you now
what I wanted to say to her then? You shouldn't
order a martini if you only like the olive? My heart
is a pocket watch in need of winding? Can I
go round the room till I find that woman I'd like
to love, try the only two Italian words I know?
It's not too late--is it?

From Subject to Change, linked up in the reading list at right.