Sylvie Hill

Computes

My God! What is it about your
Broken English
and your atrocious
expression
and you’re unreliable
half-assed attempts
to see us?
“Could be nice” this
my ass, with the dog
or the Bar de Courcelle
shouting the orders
to: “come right now !”
and: “of course I miss you.”
If you had only a clue
or relationship glue
alongside your Milwaukee
or DeWalt, you fool!
If you had only turned up
on my front door!
I would have dropped my bag
mid-hallway
sighed, smiled
made a B-line
for your body
wrapped it in your five foot
eight or nine
or seven as our parts aligned.
I would have forgotten
you’re a tool.
How many women
you’ve done this to.
My heart would have been
summoned, too.
My body moved on you
with instinct
and intuition
about a bad match.
My God! What is about you
that years since,
nor months hence
I desire no one
but your beard
and defined chin?
Your stupid expressions
and your big strange mess.
Don’t think I don’t know
The tests –
No one is told to wait
six weeks for it
unless they’ve just had
unprotected sex, sure of it.
And you’re so deranged
to do the math
of when you last
used non-latex
with a friend who was
fucking you
between her ex, and again:
T’es sale, man.
Fucké au bout.
And what does it make me
if I have adored
someone like you?
And does math add up
when nothing counts
nor for you—
computes.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, September 8, 2019.
Image: Jover