Susan Browne

“I know him, that manwalking- toward me up the crowded streetof the city, I have lived with himseven years now, I know his fast stride,his windy wheatfield hair, his hands thrust deep in his jacket pockets, handsthat have known my body, touchedits softest part, caused its quick shudders and slow releasings, I have seen his face above my face, his mouth smiling, moaning his eyes closed and opened, I have studiedhis eyes, the brown turning gold at the centers, I have silently watched him lying beside me in the early morning, I know his loneliness, like mine, human and sad,but different, too, his private painand pleasure I can never enter even as he comes closer, past trees and cars, trash and flowers, steam rising from the manhole covers, gutters running with rain, he lifts his head, he sees me, we are strangers again, and a rending music of desire and loss—I don’t know him—courses through me,and we kiss and say, It’s good to see you,as if we haven’t seen each other in years when it was just a few hours ago,and we are shy, then, not knowing what to say next.”