New Poem by Kevin Higgins: On Poyntz

Whereabouts

for JulietPoyntz (1886-1937)

You deliver envelopes

you must under no circumstances open

to men whose names you never ask

in hotel lobbies in Baltimore, Copenhagen,

Shanghai… No one you know has seen

you in three years. On a New York street

you happen upon an old friend, you used to

like to disagree with – those

big opinioned, diner nights

you can’t quite forget – talk over

your new found

disgust: the white-walled cells

into which you’ve seen people

you call ‘comrade’ one by one vanish

to be kept awake all night

and confess

under extreme electric light. Over coffee

you are full of

the book you’re planning to write.

Already evening. Earlier today,

at a chateaux in central France,

Edward married Mrs Simpson.  

You leave your room at

353 West 57th Street

to buy The New York Times

or some Lucky Strike

cigarettes. No luggage

nor extra clothes. Behind you,

everything you own.

A solitary candle

still burning.

Buried in the upstate woods

or smuggled aboard a tanker bound for

Archangel, Leningrad, Vladivostok…

You are never heard of again.