Aural Fixation

He declares I have Buddha ears, sends out a tentacling 

hand towards the nearest one as if he means to pluck it

pearl and oyster both together from the shoal of my head.

The man at the bar of the Café Sarajevo (twice my age)

tells me my long lobes are like two brown banyan pods

that this is a sure sign of being at one with the universe. 

He gifts me his patchouli nonsense along with a mojito 

that is too sweet and not cold enough. I have asked 

for neither, I am waiting for the jazz to start, my ears want 

to be at one with Mingus and Miles, to feel a jaggery bassline

swirling warm inside their folds like peaty scotch. I do not need 

to look at him, my people were piano-tuners and headmistresses,

I was born with ears in the back of my head and all of them,

the ears of my ears, listen, listen for the sound he makes when 

I take the soggy limes from the perspiring glass and wedge one 

into each bronze pinna bowl, perfumed offerings to my own temple.

Natasha Gauthier