We met in Paris many years ago now
Right away she befriended me, I’m not sure how.
Twelve years difference, but I felt I knew her.
Where she came from I couldn’t at first be sure.
I overheard her say to a student, “Je suis belge,”
And I was mystified, she looked African – who could tell?
I don’t know why she took such an initial interest in me,
Maybe she thought she could be the first step to setting me free.
She was curious about the book I was reading at the time,
It was Marguerite Duras, not one of her best, still we bonded minds.
Sensual and warm when she took my hand in the street,
She came around to a bistro to catch up and didn’t even eat.
By then she was a powerful figure in the groves of academe,
Then why did she quiz me, a lowly prof, too unimportant it would seem?
The truth was revealed when I got into a row
And said, no more emails, she didn’t know why it was so.
She never accepted my sorrys, excuses and remorse,
She was the leader of a brainy team and wanted nothing to do with me, of course.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.
Yet she had the power, come whatever that may.
I still love her as I did some forty years ago,
Though she has moved on, there remains a certain glow.
She must have feigned empathy, all those years ago.
Photo by Bruno Ngarukiye on Unsplash
