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Moez Surani
Poem
Moez Surani won The Kingston Literary Award, The James H. Stitt
Poetry Prize and The McIlquham Foundation Award. His work has appeared in Todd Swift's
100 Poets Against the War, Queen Street Quarterly and Versal. He is a graduate
student in Montreal, Canada.
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Alley Dolle
Alley Dolle
moves slowly
room to room
when she is
without me.
Her face
taut as clothesline
burdened shoulders
body boiled so thin
body so long.
That summer her husband--
and she discovered
discovered Etta James.
Raised the volume
so it moved
room to room
with her.
Over and
over
again.
Etta James.
Room
to room.
A sort of portrait:
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Alley Dolle standing
crossing the room
away from me.
Leans her hand out window.
String of smoke rising,
curling above street.
Alley Dolle
moving slow
through room.
Leaves cigarette
to breathe
against window screen.
Hair still and yellow brown past shoulders
using hands to describe Spanish mountains.
Then twists her arm,
shows that spot
where foot slipped on wet rock
damaging her elbow.
Hands describing
(Alley Dolle
has an umbrella smile.)
groves of Spanish olives.
July night,
trying to sleep.
Torment of storm.
Rain like flung stones
against window against wall
window pane rattling mad between frame.
Cross the room in my underclothes
tear strips of newspaper
to wedge between glass and frame.
Sleep torment silent pane.
I used to say it. Used
to say it. Even
wrote it out.
Then
over and
over again
like a needle
tracing same section of record
till ink crowded paper
(cus my veins got poison marching in it)
used to whisper,
'Oh Alley Dolle,
I'd never touch you'
But,
yellow summer dress
And me,
leaping out windows.
Etta James and 12 bar blues
in a room made orange by sunset.
Beats stretch
like a body across mattress.
Beats long as
as leg,
ankle to hip.
Melody like a thin white sheet.
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All this parched skin,
and the appetite for water.
Come Alley Dolle
time we swim.
Evenings meeting her
leaning against chain-link fence.
Walking those streets
amongst noise of bicycle chains
stop and start of cars
couples strolling, talking,
amongst metal braking of cars
then that seven step drop into nightclub.
Nightclub like a smoke filled mouth.
Standing at bar,
my pressed pants, pressed shirt
dance floor between us and band.
Man with large arms,
squeezing, swinging his cornet.
Alley Dolle
leaning
back against me,
my hand alive at her hip.
Song with bare shoulders
long legs
(Ahh, Jesus)
wet guitar
the rough horn
wanting to break free, loose
and Eve's voice feeling it
waiting that half moment
gathering, waiting
(Jesus, I'm there)
then stepping
and her voice leaping
over band spotlights
grabbing some lyric
and swinging it up, twisting
and tying it up on itself
up top at the street above
buildings, wires, traffic
before getting back
then that second leap from stage
across dance floor
band chasing her
like five wild dogs
and my hands alive
those seven steps below street.
Adding my weight
slowly to mattress.
Summer grip of heat
clinging to stark white walls.
August heat sleeping
in long white bones.
Speak slower Alley Dolle.
Speak slow.
In that voice,
more breath than whisper.
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