Portobello Road
by Carrie Friedman
I'm staring at a picture of you,
The same one as before.
The only picture ever taken
Before the standoff and the war.
And next to it, there's another propped precariously,
Blowing and dangling when my noisy desk fan hits it.
A photo you took of me when I was still naive,
On the London street upon arrival,
My arms wide out, cars passing, but I'm hesitating a bit.
I can't remember why. Do you?
I have yet to sleep since the talk.
I busy myself with props:
The tilt of the desklamp,
The height of my chair,
Only feminist music playing
But on a volume so low I have to strain to hear.
The skin under my eyes where my cheeks should start
Is pinky-red and puffy-raw.
I look like a confused football player on a sunny game-day,
Or a garishly blushed-up woman from the baroque period.
All semblances of eye makeup were excused for the night,
I ponder my acne — icing on the cake.
I turned off my phone and have messages from people I hardly know,
With advice ranging from warm baths to lesbianism.
But I'm too busy to hear,
Preoccupied with the picture dancing on my desk,
Propelled by the buzzing desk fan's sprays.
It's a picture you took,
I'm hesitantly crossing the busy street to you,
And now I can recall:
I was looking both ways.