“Stalking ee in the Fifties” by Colette Inez

Colette Inez


I knew him by his tonsure,
head bare as a Buddhist monk
or a bowl holding lower case letters

that poured out on a page.
I almost saw that spillage
running out of his hands as he unlatched

the gate of Patchin Place;
O, ee, I followed him down Sixth
in jacket weather, he, neatly made

and wearing tweed. At the bakery
he pointed to swirls of pastry. A baguette
poked out of his paper bag like a periscope.

I remember asters, mums at the florist. Purple, pink
peeped out of the wrappings.
In the deli he would pick

Genoese salami, sliced thin, my favorite,
or half-sour pickles, the color of lagoons
in Lamour, Hope, Crosby films?

Far from frangipani, ee turned towards Sixth,
his face a mask, and I followed like Old Dog Tray
pretending the letter I’d never mail:

Dear ee,
Your “Somewhere I have never traveled”
charts my realm, too, even as I step from here to there,
too moony by half to ask for your autograph.
I failed to say I lived with Roethke’s “sadness of pencils”
in gray cubicles, carbon paper stains
on hands that itched to compose

more than shaky notes for poems after squabbling
with a lover, “glad and big.”
Moaning through rooms of maybe and no,

I wanted the impertinence of Edward Estlin C, to tease
like him

a sort of antic beauty of words reckoned on the page.
O, ee I wanted to leave

my lip prints on the flap of an envelope
holding the poems I’d never send,
though I could have left them at your door,

you were that near
when I stalked you back then
in love with your line

from Rattle #26, Winter 2006
Tribute to the Greatest Generation


Colette Inez: “I am this summer reading the great Tang Dynasty poet Li Ho and think of his line ‘fireflies in the tomb’ when I walk in the park in early evening and watch the flickering lights in the children’s playground and in the wet grass. A new translation of Rilke’s collected poems by Anita Barrow and Joanna Macy has also taken my fancy. I’m revising some poems written in Scotland seeing a few students and I long for Li Ho’s ‘Northern Cold’—‘flowers of frost on the grass as big as coins.’”

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