You are smiling.
You call me in panic, Ai, Ai,
my stomach hurts!
 
It is summertime in Montreal.
It is a rainy November
in the tropical West Coast.
 
We are climbing the statue
of the lion in Shomal.
Although limping, he is alive.
 
You are wearing a purple
one piece suit.  The climb is hard.
I can barely hear your voice.
 
For years I've been angry,
avoiding the phone calls
from your virile personality
 
taking over. With a sip of wine.
The ending was bad.
But I talked to you at last.
 
I could apologize for
not being there, for my lack of
healing spells to cast.
 
I had a certitude, alas,
that it was out of my league,
no matter what the blame.
 
You must have been happy,
partying with your gay friends,
one with the jet set.
 
I am without the same.
I hope, I pray, that in the afterlife
life does spring from Death.
 
As Jim Jones famously declared,
haven't met anyone that
didn't die yet.
 
 
For Bita,
1962-2013
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
Jam