A Toast

by Leah Muddle

She says,
You must have morals.
We are looking
at Naomi Campbell,
once not a wearer of fur,
wearing a dress that
once was worn by a snake.
She is in line
at Starbucks, asks me
Chai tea?
In line
at Starbucks,
talking morals
and anti-fur ideals -
that must be
so ten years ago.
I can't stand
scruples so duplicitous,
says she.
Chai tea?

Her appetite is
more mental
than physical.
She asks the waitress,
Does it come with much fruit?
The waitress is French
and thinks Much
is a kind of fruit.
Our hands work in vain
to explain
A lot,
I gesture.
Does it come with
a lot of fruit?
The waitress French shrugs.
When it comes
the fruit
is barely forked at.
She goes to no pain
to explain.

She is beautiful in
a stand-out, long-limbed,
sunglass-wearing,
kind of doll-eyed,
beautiful way.
Looking always in
the rear view mirror
for beautiful cars
or beautiful men.
Say when.
The only men
I watch for
are ticket inspectors -
her watch
has stopped -
she cannot think
of the time,
says to me,
again,
Say when.

She does yoga
in a bridesmaid dress
in a packed bar
in Kings Cross.
In a bikini the next day;
so tanned
next to me
so pale
at Bondi;
(I sigh).
I think we
don't fit
anymore. I think that
I don't want
to talk so much
nod so much.
I just want
these wilting days
to fly by.
(I sigh).

Sitting on big cushions
on the Zen floor
with champagne -
her posture offhand,
my posture
crimped -
a table apart,
vast thought maps apart.
We laugh when supposed
and toast.
Watching a film all women
are meant to see
themselves in.
If I see myself,
if she sees herself,
is it the same as seeing each other?
Laugh at the same time,
for a time the same -
close (enough).
We toast.

 

This poem is taken from Total Cardboard issue 6, and remains under copyright. For more information see www.totalcardboard.com