Fetch
n. 1. A stratagem by which a thing is indirectly brought to pass,
or by which one thing seems intended and another is
done; a trick; an artifice.
2. C17: of unknown origin. The apparition or double of a
living person; a wraith.
1
I send her out
into the cold dark night.
She rides a bus to the edge
of town, enters a bar.
See her hair, nearly black
in the dim room, skin
translucent. She orders a beer,
downs it in one.
The men sit with their backs
against the wall, watch her
order another, cross
the floor, take a seat,
while I am safe
at home, wondering if I should
cut my hair – too long, I think
as I catch myself in the mirror.
She smiles at her reflection
in the jukebox, the glare of neon
like a halo, plays with a strand of hair,
chooses Are You Lonesome Tonight?
A quarter clinks into the slot,
the mechanical hand lifts
the black disc, slips it in place.
The arm swivels over,
needle poised. The men
check out her ass, her legs.
Skirt’s too short, I think,
pulling mine over my knees.
2
I choose her uniform –
sunglasses, trenchcoat.
She needs to lose herself
in a crowd, to be invisible.
She enters Main Street
at 2:32 p.m. precisely,
sidewalk slick with rain,
sights him moving south.
Easy to spot in a crowd:
I’d know the arc of his shoulders,
his particular, easy gait,
from a mile away.
She must report
where he goes, who he meets,
if he still wears that blue shirt.
She’s made for this,
tails him like a cipher,
a girl he might think
he knows from somewhere,
but can’t quite place.
She keeps her distance
like I taught her, hugs the walls,
will duck into a doorway
the exact moment he turns.
He doesn’t turn. He is a man
who never looks behind him,
although today, something
stops him in his tracks,
maybe a small prickle
of déja vu, like a finger
tracing the curve of his spine,
like someone treading on his grave.
3
I am thinking of her
constantly, the way she walks –
someone once told me
I walk on my toes –
the way she holds a pen –
I have a ridge on my finger
where my biro rubs –
the way she writes him down:
He’s drinking coffee, his thin lips
grazing the side of the cup,
the contents still hot, his mouth
making little kissing motions.
He smells of cut grass
and tobacco, runs his fingers
through his hair, gazes into
the distance, as if he’s seen a ghost.
That was her last report.
Somehow she’s managed
to throw me – she’s learned
the principles of treachery –
now I wait for them both
to return, counting the hours
like a rosary, the pang
of loss pressed on my ribs.
4
After days, I spy her
in the lobby of a motel,
wearing my brown coat.
She smoothes it over her hips,
determined, steely. I want to
shake her by the shoulders,
the shape of her bones familiar,
but it’s too late.
When he sees her, his face
changes completely as if he
has never seen her, as if he
has seen nothing else.
He says your hair is different,
and runs his fingers through it,
I can feel the crush of his lips
as he pulls her close by my collar.
In a room on the third floor
she unbuttons his shirt (the blue one),
spreads her hand full
over his chest, his coarse hair
blossoming under my fingers.
She has stopped breathing. He is hard
against her, pushes her legs apart.
I have stopped breathing.
On the wall above the bed,
a faded Monet poster:
a girl in a white hat
adrift in a field of poppies.
As their bodies blur in the tangle
of bedclothes, I feel my skin
go numb; the power to receive
his touch is gone, his face goes dark.
She has found herself without me.
I am stranded in a station
at midnight, where the train
rushes through without stopping.
5
It can only end
one way – on the edge of town
on the darkest night I can imagine,
and she’s alone. So alone
she can feel the ache rising
from stomach to heart to brain.
She has lost us both. I knead the vein
on the side of my head, throbbing.
I knock a whisky back,
she feels a burning
in her throat. This is going to be
hard, I think, steering her
away from the safety
of a street lamp, into the unknown.
At the other end of the street,
a car swerves into being,
takes the edge off the corner
onto the sidewalk.
She will never know
what hit her.
Page(s) 43-47
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