Bruise

                   by Michael Ondaatje

In the medieval darkness of the Holland Tunnel

with luminous green paint, on whitewashed walls

of the Madrid zoo, in his think-fingered handwriting

onto dust at the dry Casablanca aquarium

                                   "When last I held you in my arms,

                                    my love, the West African Black

                                    Rhinoceros was still magnificent

                                    and still alive . . ."

What have you been doing to Paul Vermeersch?
He searched for you encyclpedically

in Albacete, in Zagora, in those cities

whose names have changed,

till the maps he relies on wear out.

In what disguise did you leave him?
So he will not recognize

your gait anymore,

or your stare out from a diorama.

Hunt and Torment. Call but no Response.

In the end words of love reveal

just yourself. Not why

or the wished-for thing. Only the Spanish

consider his plea, only the drivers

deep in a tunnel into New York

nod wisely, agree with him.

But it is the black rhino whose loss they mourn,

not the person he held once in his arms.

When it is over, it is over

they say in the passing dark.

There are no longer great nostrils

to scent out the source of torment.

It is a generation since our love,

to justify anger, had a horn, a tusk.

The New Yorker, 1/13/14.