Orphans of Night

We stood under the doorframe,
you on one side, me on the other…
we were used to borders.
It was Paris seven o’clock.
Café des États-Unis.
I felt the night under my blouse
and waited for you to greet me.
My map around my neck
you ask me if we come
from the same place-
where figs lie on the coffins
of boys, a past misplaced.
You give me a glass of red wine
ask me who killed my father
tell me why the nights
begin every night here
and lead me to a stroll.
We walk through avenues
unknown in our stories
reach the Metro
turn to each other
wanting to return
returning only to an empty
bottle of wine and a café
about to close.

First published in Mizna