‘My husband beats me,’ she murmured,
eyes downcast, to Bill in reply to his praise
of her gentle beauty. Perhaps she thought
to reject an advance? I never saw a mark
on her delicate face, nor a bruise
on her dainty arm, and she didn’t move
like one with hidden injuries; she was lithe.
Nor did she, later, reject his advances.
I wasn’t with him on that trip. But I knew.
Cross-posted to my poetry blog The Passionate Crone, where it now also forms part of my 'Remembering Bali' series.
[Poem #89]
This began as a game some bloggers played in 2008, to write about people who'd made an impact, in the same number of words as one's age, every day for a year. I did them less often and went on longer, adding one word each birthday. I stopped in 2016 and incorporated them into my main poetry blog. In 2019 I resumed the project and gave it its own blog again, with a new name, where it may unfold at its own (slow, intermittent, lapsing and resuming) pace. I've labelled these verse portraits, but they're more like quick sketches: mere glimpses, impressions....
Showing posts with label BALI. Show all posts
Showing posts with label BALI. Show all posts
Sunday, 5 December 2010
Friday, 4 July 2008
Balinese Waiter
You came upstairs
with our tray,
tall golden lad
wearing jacket, sarong
and awkward grace.
I was even charmed
by your too-big
feet in floppy thongs.
But you grew into them.
Six years later,
our last visit,
you kissed me
a little too long.
My youngest said, smiling,
'He’s just like another
boy, isn’t he Mum?'
Your voice went husky.
'I think, not boy
any more,' you said.
[Poem #5]
with our tray,
tall golden lad
wearing jacket, sarong
and awkward grace.
I was even charmed
by your too-big
feet in floppy thongs.
But you grew into them.
Six years later,
our last visit,
you kissed me
a little too long.
My youngest said, smiling,
'He’s just like another
boy, isn’t he Mum?'
Your voice went husky.
'I think, not boy
any more,' you said.
[Poem #5]
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