“What’s Your Name?”

I’ve been watching you for months,

and now I realize you have a voice

soft and low, with something foreign in it,

and you say “Paul” with a French accent,

and then perhaps “Ma bouche est sec,”

with and American accent

so that we spiral through tongues

until I see that for you

they’re all foreign,

and your native tongue is silence.

Do you have a boyfriend?

A girlfriend?

Do you want one?

We laugh and lean against the bar,

forearms barely touching,

looking across the room at the same

sooty bare bulb, the hairs on our arms

brushing against each other as we move

with gentle deliberation.

I saw you coming out of lecture today,

coming from a class on Buddhism,

and do you know of the

Chakavatti Sihananda--the Wheel-Turning King?

And what would his dharma-police

have thought if they’d seen us rubbing forearms?

I recall the way Dr. Hemas dangled one pump

off the end of her foot as I explained

that true altruism meant

loving without having.

Behind your dark skin, your eyes

like moss beneath a film of clear water--

So what if it looks clean?

Who knows who’s taken a shit in it;

and Giardia can be hell--

there’s your soft brain,

pallid and eyeless like some fish

in the darkness of a mountain cave,

and there are swarming quarks,

gluons, intermediate vector bosons,

so how do I bring them to rise for me?

How do I cleanse the air of bitter almonds

and draw back their carmine mists

where you are still a child behind a

lemon-yellow metal lozenge,

hiding from your mama,

stifling your sobs and waiting

for the springy clack of the

screen-door shutting.

“Paul.”

“Nice to meet you, Paul.”

What does one say next?

I like your hair?

What’s your major?

Do you know Jake Pobler--

and of course you don’t

because its a name I just made up?

But before I can decide what to say,

you wander off, and to be honest,

I’m relieved.