You have to let them go and hope for the best
The night before you left for India,
we got the movie time wrong.
We strolled arm in arm through the city
as if we were the stars
in our own film.
On the bus home, the driver
issued me two child tickets,
and a young Italian man gesticulated
and spoke of blue cheese.
After you left,
I washed your five white work shirts.
Broken glass was spread over the carpet
from the party the night before.
I looked out,
and saw smoke – thick, fluid clouds of it.
An Indian woman was running
from here to there hysterically –
collapsing into the arms
On a Tuesday,
I found myself upstairs in the sun.
You’d been in a crash.
I looked out.
Down the road, at the bus-stop,
a pair of figures danced slowly
in perfect unison –
and stepping back.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Emily Dobson has just completed an MA in creative writing at Victoria and is the winner of the Adam Foundation Prize for 2004. She has been published in various journals and lives in Wellington.