Page 25 - Poems

After five minutes, maybe less. Familiar streets and junctions, overpasses, bridges flare into sight,
whirlwinding with squad cars, fire trucks, ambulances, tumult and light. Where had the hustlers near
Stalingrad gone, the Friday-night revellers at Jaurès, the tramps cambered over the heat of a metro’s
air vents by Louis Blanc, the gracious greengrocers fibrous-rooting from La Chapelle? Night strides
by, igneous, incensed, flashing eyes and incisors of agate, a lavaliere wrought in neon and sulphur.
Still slow, still uncomprehending, I stand and stare: fear has not yet seeped into capillaries of thought.
After home opens its arms, after the world avalanches my ears through a reactivated
telephone, after voicemail disgorges dread and distraught love via twelve countries, four
continents & five time zones, after WhatsApp, Skype and Google Chat logjam with
megabytes of qualms & commotion from kin and kith, classmates, colleagues, I squat
and stare, still slow (sandstone ricocheting through gelatine), still uncomprehending, at
the devices hollering themselves hoarse. It takes FranceInfo Direct to shake me sentient.
After details of streets and neighbourhoods surface on the radio, after
names shape themselves into place and people, meaning and memory — Le
Petit Cambodge, La Belle Equipe and Le Carillon, then the Bataclan, Rue
de Charonne, Rue de la Fontaine-au-Roi, Stade de France, after those names
overbrim with night (still igneous, now immense) before my eyes, after that,
after all that, after all that do nerves and neurons cordite to life, hector
stricken breath to swim all the way back to the cortex, relatch limbs – that
ache for no reason – with synapses, and enjoin fingers to move again, to
tap, tap, tap in query and in reply, once, twice, a few dozen times, then more.
After the text messages surge telephone calls, most of mine
falling down the abyss of answering machines — even as
others’ missed calls shatter against my own device. We that
reach each other have just a handful of words – little grief rages,
as yet – to spare: there are too many names that await, each a
hammering heartbeat against ribcages clenched in concern. The
same chords back-and-forth with minor variations: a prayer in
any tongue, in many tongues, over and over and over and over.
Are you alright? And the kids? How will you reach your
station? Where will you sleep tonight? Stay safe. I’m home now,
don’t worry. They are fine too. I was at the Comédie-Française.
Sorry, the phone was on sleep mode. I’ll sign off now — more
friends to check on. Over & over: Damn them, the fucking
maniacs, sodding dickhead morons. And, with some: Yes,
close to home. Right, the street next to Saint-Louis. No, he
wasn’t at the Bataclan tonight. They are in Rome this weekend.
I must call her, it was a France-Germany match, after all. Bye.
Où es-tu ? Et les enfants ? Tu vas pouvoir rentrer
ce soir ? Et vous allez dormir où ? Porte-toi bien.
J’étais juste sorti boire un verre. Ne t’en fais pas,
on était au MK2 Quai de Seine. Pardon, j’ai dû
éteindre le portable. Bon, je file, il y a des potes
qui essaient de me joindre. Et on jure, encore,
encore : Les enculés, putains d’enfoirés de

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