FRANK JOUSSEN

The Lady in Hemingway's Room

THE LADY IN HEMINGWAY´S ROOM

Slowly I rise above the din

ringing through the Ambos Mundos bar,

a badly performed ‘Let it Be’

mixed with Raul´s speech on revolution day,

until I reach the only solid ground

my dizzy head is longing for here –

the tiles leading up to

and continuing in Ernesto´s writing refuge.

The lady politely ignores my slightly slurred speech,

“ca, came here before. ei, eight years ago.”

One bemused look shatters my illusion

of being someone special.

How many on this Caribbean island

are hooked on him, small bait for

the old Marlin man of a writer?

Of course, she comes here every day -

come capitalism, come communism,

come whatever comes next.

Like eight years ago

she´s gently correcting my mistakes,

filling in gaps, opening new doors

about the man who drank downstairs

but really lived upstairs

of the Ambos Mundos bar.

For her he´ll continue to do so

and next time I´ll stay sober enough

to take it all in.

MARITAL NOCTURNE

Driving home last night

blinded by my own headlights

I hit the curb,

veered off course.

Shaving late at night

I cut myself,

stared at a scarecrow in the mirror.

Joined you for a midnight bottle

at whose bottom

you found your answer

I found mine

but we didn´t

find each other -

“looking in the wrong place

for the right person”.

Went to our separate beds

in our shared bedroom,

you cuddling up

in the foetus position,

me steeling myself

for a sleepless night

with me saying “we´re lost”

only when I was sure

you were sleeping.

THE NIGHT BEFORE ALL SOULS´ DAY

The streets are noisy –

grandchildren playing Halloween,

but what is ‘trick or treat’ in German?  

Their shrieks begin to falter

when the doors of the old won´t open

to let the light inside come out.

So they squeeze the decorative pumpkin

through the letter-box

and turn their death masks

towards a new but unknown destination.

She had to remind me

to take the day off and come on the first

and her bad leg won´t almost

drag her uphill towards the ancient church

and the surrounding cemetery

where the sanctuary light

shines small and red like

the memory of bygone sunsets

that felt like forever

when she and dad where young

and only seemed to announce

a new dawn for their child´s play.

ONE FUNERAL AND TEN YEARS LATER

I´m kneeling almost exactly where

I received my First Communion

but in my former parish church

I feel like an ex-junkie today -

my hands and knees are shaking,

my vision´s filled with

flashbacks and déjà vus:

from behind this uncle looks

a lot like my long dead grandpa,

that aunt has always limped a bit

but at the end of this time tunnel it´s worse,

ten years ago I also wanted

to talk to this cousin, badly,

but I couldn´t then and I can´t now.

We´re moving slowly towards the coffin,

the age-old priest is mumbling something

about the consecrated host, then even hands it to me,

but I feel undeserving

and must look bewildered, slightly stoned.

I´m so disoriented I can´t

find my place in the pew

and do what I´ve already done too often -

I take the next exit.

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