The husband is on his way home from Barcelona now. At least, he's supposed to be. And his absence reminds me of my love and loathing of Barcelona, the city I have the strongest feelings for, and how when I lived there, without knowing the depth of it, I was desperately unhappy and uncertain and feeling loveless:



On the Apprehension of a Second Language in a Foreign City



Take a lover

who speaks no English,

they tell you,

you will learn Spanish

by the time

the affair is over.



In no time,

simple phrases, words,

come to you:

Egoistic verbs --

I have, I want,

I need... I am, I am;



Useful nouns --

what eyes! great sweater!

Modifiers --

most, very, better;

You sound like a child,

yet at least you make sense.



Comprehension,

on the other hand,

is harder.

You often misunderstand,

eavesdropping

when he is on the phone.



In the next room,

you lie in bed afraid

it is you

he meant when he said

cerda -- sow --

in the fiercest tone.



To the end,

adult conversation

eludes you,

done in by conjugation,

excepting the past imperfect.

You can say, "I have gone."



Barcelona 1998

uh, and, while I'm at it, copyright 2002



Yes, yes, it's a little glib. Of course, the reality was that I had no lover, not even dates. One-night stands, yes, but no dates. That is, not until I met the husband in a club, Metro, at 3:30 a.m. on July 18. Interestingly enough, the misunderstandings and worry in the poem came purely from listening to my crazy flatmate yammering on the phone, I felt so shamefully and annoyingly dependent on his great kindness.



The Swedish word for the day is tillbacka. It means back again.



- by Francis S.