By Kim Göransson, Sweden/ USA (Published in Issue 13)
Gothenburg at night and the morning after.
Its cranes and harbor-gray outlines.
I don’t mean to forget.
I have not forgotten yet. Poseidon,
almost human in bronze,
fists clutching. Why do we make our Gods
pose so? And I miss sometimes
the bleeding hearts walking up and down
Avenyn in mini-skirts in the summer.
Your animated fountains.
But you took your backpack
full of water bottles, up on Ramberget,
slipped quietly into your noose.
Not so quietly, not really.
Gothenburg blue but never red,
why such weeping at such a distance?
I have your timetables memorized,
your numbers filed away.
Call me, you said, promise you will
call me and I promised
and I called and you said:
“I don’t remember you. Who are you?”
I’m places and names and streets and colors
and soft voices and loud voices
and longing with guilt and pleasure and falling.
I’m cinema at Järntorget and union politics,
the adult shops and the cultural exchange.
I’m Café Centro. I'm Hängmattan, 2002.
I’m falafels at Bellevue. I’m the fucking
museum of natural history.
Gothenburg blue but never red, orange, screaming
at night comparing notes clutching my fists
and you saying: why do you pose so? Why
do you lean so? It’s not natural,
it makes you look impotent.
Look, write what you know.
Look, write what you don’t know.
Look, just what feels right when it feels right.
Follow your intuition.
Follow your prescription.
Tonight when everything feels out of sorts,
I write what maybe I know and something
about Gothenburg, or maybe that
I know nothing and that that’s all right somehow,
because memory is a funny thing but
I also thought, you know, that at some point
I would return to all the places I’ve been
to erase them to maybe see you there
because you were the last face I saw
and faces are important.
Eyes are important,
the things you forget first
maybe because they’re important
and all that remains are the ruins of what once was,
street names and text books and memories
that become stories I want to catch
before they fall and lose their scents,
their something inner something
soul laughter terrible the stuff
of moments as they happen and I know
it’s futile and I know the colors fade,
that while you sleep the cranes in the distance
change their positions and that tears dry
into the shirt sleeves
and the love music stops and you have to keep dancing
and without guidance and in the dark
and that even together you are alone
and alone is sometimes a temple and sometimes
a fucking abyss.
So Gothenburg I suppose I’m through, through, through
and I just wanted to say that I called again
and your answer machine picked up and well
Kim Göransson was born in Umeå, Sweden, but lives in Virginia, USA. He writes mostly poetry and edits the small e-zine "kitchen".