Ledru-Rollin

by Farryl Last | 2008

If I tell you Bastille,
you'll know the place and breathe images
of Parisian streets damp like just-licked envelopes,
skies dim with chattering clouds.
How romantic.

Only the next stop on the métro
and I thought myself a French fairytale—
I imagined rain on rivers, rain on street lamps, rain on statues.

I learned that rain just breeds
kneecaps against couches,
my heel caught in the lining of my boot,
the crumpled breath of fireflies.
I was just an expectation.

With eyes pressed closed I felt myself
the same: American girl, sweet or adventurous,
thin elbows, brown eyes,
5'2", 32A.

When my shoulder blades were cold
and I alone I hummed
Wicked Game and the hiss of métro tracks.

You asked if I was ever lonely in Paris.

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