Vol 1 No 1 2007
Sundown
The first room we share has a window
facing west that swallows the coin of
the sun. The antenna atop the next roof
casts a lizard’s shadow on our skin
every winter afternoon. Gila monster,
stick insect, chimera. Those long February
days strange women ask after you, and I
hammer the story into shape. Everything’s
one more guess in the dark. I pull you down
around my ears like a hat. The women
lurk on the fire escape, fight me for the last
book on the library shelf, warn me
these things don’t always work out. We
shoot a game of pool around a woman in
a trenchcoat who checks your pants
for quarters. What did you do that they
service you with such envy? They all want
to know who I am, but cut their eyes when
I say: I come from the east, I am
the juggler of oranges and knives, I
the red-handed harlequin, the cat
with stripes and spots, queen of
tripwire. I don’t know what I’ll do
when I get my hands on you.
Tanis MacDonald