this girl, one summer

the german-speaking girl from
italy, she
has curves, curls, wide
laughing brown eyes, is
sun-kissed, me-kissed
and prized
open, and
walks on
strong tanned legs and high,
high heels and feels
great, she says, and is
serious
- about the business of pleasure
- that this will last forever
- in the kitchen, my friends' kitchen
that she takes over, filling
us, the house with the mothering wonder
of her clattering cooking, bright colours, rolling hips
and gifts we didn't expect
when
she's gone, but not, she says,
for long

I get postcards, letters in a childish hand
hearts for the dots of i and j,
calls from a payphone I imagine
on a steep südtirol street

she's coming back to me at easter,
then she can't come,
she can't come because
her parents don't know me so
I should come there and I say
OK, then I say, no, no
I can't and she says
OK, she's coming anyway and
I wonder how and don't
care how and
at gatwick airport she
doesn't turn up, and
I never call back

and neither does she