POEM: “From the Kiss In The Garden to the Station” — Could his making love free my prison and bar you for all intrusions?

From the Kiss In The Garden To the Station

We thought is was Hermes
Something bought in England
Or maybe with the hot girlfriend
You had in Istanbul one season.

But it was faint and I never smelled it again.
And in the summer sweat of you at 20
I smelled him and it never left
Until the memorable time in London.

He stares like you – straight.
He’s got a ferocity that’s bridled
Not out there enraged and final
And he was patient with witch hands

Did we kiss? I can’t remember.
I pissed myself kinda and lost keys in the toilet
While maybe speaking in a Mancunian accent
While you said don’t mix your drinks and

you don’t have to finish that.

“You can’t date an artist
You need a man with a normal job
Who can take care of you”

Before you told me twice to watch your parka
And to check if I was listening, and got ya.
I’m so self-sufficient why do I need looking after?
That man who said to you before our supper you paid for

“Look after her.”

Rhys, he’s an amalgamation
He is the new book being written
And I went down with no regrets and abandon
Then took the plane from England

Would all that be for this moment?
Would all that be for this person?
The beard, the eyes, and those eye glasses
The grip of a hand and insistence in expression

Would all that be to lead me here
All that suffering forgiven?
For a mental scent and a hairless head
And a look as keen as feverish?

And a calm expression keeping a cool
While I twirl my girlish dance beside him
Was all that to make me confident
That he’s the one in the garden?

And when I dropped my glasses
And my toque by the gate with all the kisses
And he bent for them and folded spectacles
As meticulous as you have done

Would all those years be to lead me here
Into the legs of someone exquisite
A tall gait confident yet like you walked Soho
And we stood nattering by Trafalgar monument?

If you would tell me one thing or this
And give me reassurance
That if he goes to the place that together
In Bloomsbury, that place that we did visit

If you could say we’re not spring chickens
And if we have to try it out, innit
Would you be there saying “I’m sorry hun”
If it all didn’t work out in the end.

And if it works out because of the kiss in the garden
Would he know where he’s about to visit?
Do we give entry to the man with the gentle hand
And the expression as raw in decisions.

Does he know to where he is going
From the kiss in the garden to the station?
Could his making love free my prison
and bar you for all intrusions?

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, October 9, 2020