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Triangle Park

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When I was in love in the early 90s, I wrote many poems about a girl named Elizabeth. I flew her out from Kent, UK, and to Honolulu. I wrote a poem about one moment, in Triangle Park in Waikiki. It moved me.

We spoke French in triangle park 
until the pelt of morning burnt into the spine
of day. You led me through verb drills 
until our nasal honk, goose-like, blurred 
and your cupped palms spun
as though swatting at flies 
before your face.

You left me for the beach and I watched you
cross against the growling traffic.
A brazen strut tousled your hair,
until I only knew you by the yellows
and blues of the blanket 
That whipped against your shoulder.

I huddled in the Tradewinds, pressing down
flyaway texts, jotting elusive words meaning
to want to need in bleeding rollerball scrawl 
upon a graph paper tablet.

I thought of wants and needs and glistening
PABA torsos and legs gritty with sand.

©1993 chris abraham

Jul 09, 1993 12:00 AM