Close Communion

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Did you notice the closest I have come to touching you

is your thigh pressed against mine as the train rocks us

closer on our rides from work to our separate homes?

If you closed your eyes would you recognize my scent

on the platform? Would you follow the trail of my aroma

to sit by me? When I get up to go, does your heart burst

into an orchestra of Kyoto drummers

pounding: Don’t leave. Don’t leave?

Can I shape you into a fantasy who walks me to my door?

Will I pluck up the nerve to bring the illusion of you inside,

introduce you to my furniture, the flowers on my wall,

my CDs? Do you know that since our thighs first met

I have been in close communion with Ella Fitzgerald?

She sings me a hymn: Every time we say goodbye I die

a little. I have counted 100 daydreams where I am trying

to rescue the refrain of this song from becoming a dirge.

Can I tell you about daydream 101? I hide my pot

for one, pull out the teapot for two. We join in sips

of Jasmine tea — our libation. The baptized petals float

to the surface. As you raise my china cup to your mouth

the tea glues a petal to your top lip.

This vision drives me to daydream

102 — you, feasting on a flower.

As April is National Poetry Month, all this week we are featuring a poem a

day in addition to our regular content. For more features, see


©2000 Elena Georgiou and Nerve Publishing