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Mrs Everywhere

With Apologies to Dorothy Parker

Gabrielle Taylor

Can love you for
your corrugated eyes, the feel
of your hand on my arm,
where the music, skipping, repeated the same bits about love for an hour
while we drank the same cup of coffee very slowly and I imitated
someone I'd heard on the bus: "she sent her little brother
round to get the money, yes, her little brother, six foot four
and two hundred forty pounds, I left the money at my parents,
I just didn't need that"?
He said we must love one another and die.
I said I won't die at all. Does this mean
I forget your mottled hands and torn-off nails,
    (too strange for there ever to be
    more than one of you or me)?
Forget your jumbled teeth on my name?
I ask because I have never forgot you entirely.
Yet if I love you he says I will die. If that's true,
I take some satisfaction in knowing:
    (you who first foretold our situation and its duration (hardier and
        more profitable than weeds)
    and yet no matter what you may take into your
    resilent and ruthless heart
        (the turbine that might power my greatest light)
    it is of no significance, for your heart
    is disconnected from your active body. Your role
    is a dream from which you are sure
    I will wake up. I say I am awake. There is always
    a stair without a railing that, lightheaded, I
    stumble against without your hand on my arm)
you'll die too.

Gabrielle Taylor is a writer, photographer and internet consultant in Ottawa. She operates Moon Farmer, with Shad Muegge, The Clean Shopper where she reviews organic products and writes about allergy, and the Hypercube Photo Gallery of Canada. She has an intellectual online game at As usual she was supposed to be working, not drinking tea and writing a poem.

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