Lost in the Shadow | Tatiana Pahlen

Lost in the Palm Shadow
(To Allen Furst)
By Tatiana Pahlen

Under the palm
In a semi-dream
with half a glass
of Gin-n-tonic
My mind is rambling in between
the lines of the novel
I’m holding.
My eyes are closed;
I slipped inside and felt the tremor
of a traveler:
the train is packed
with refugees,
their faces pale, exuding fear.
The Germans rattle everywhere,
Old Europe fights an occupation;
orders roar for Slavs and Jews,
“No transfer here, schnel, Papiere!”
I jump on the shabby, gray platform
away from the train with smelly cabins,
dashing along the rue Chardin,
with petits cafés devoid of patrons.
The streets in Paris, lost and dim,
No souls found after curfew hours,
but Spring induces crazy things;
I see two lovers in the shadow.
Their bodies twisted in a passionate kiss,
The air surrounding them is electrifying
Suddenly, I feel it’s me
leaning against his
well-toned body.
The siren of the worn Mercedes,
swarmed with Germans
and their trophy matrons
came near and almost ran over us,
but it didn’t cancel our fervid fever.
Soft whisperings, vowing to stay alive
and to escalate our wild desires,
Trembling, I’m slowly reaching
a slippery pinnacle of a climax,
till a shrill voice of a native brat,
rose from the palm
to clear the haze;
I blink my eyes and voilà,
I’m back on the beach,
and hear the following:
“Hola, Señorita, more Gin-n-Tonic?”