Night Alone in a Parisian Hotel

by Farrah Sarafa | 2009

I.

   Warm Pandoori naan bubble with sparks of Fontbrieul '01 in my belly,
            I wait for the words to come.
Bare, plain warm bread, wine and poetry
Intra vein this here evening in Paris
      where stark romance is as abundant as
      the tiny squares of chocolate bar—
                  78% cocoa noir.

Sterling silver dream catches the bodies of my earrings,
limbs made from alternating emerald
          and purple glass beads
       that glisten in the sunlight;
       a thumbnail of a coconut shell,
                   fills their centers.

II.

  I am a blend of the wild (grain) and the old (cheese),
         the youth, the seller and the sold.
Indian bread, French wine—Bordeaux red—I am warm and alone
               in a hotel room.
     Why I am not out, instead?

  Why am I not out, pursuing music—streaks of velvet red,
      golden lined rust-freckled and generously fed
             by an Orchestra?

III.

Orchestra:
Instrumental bouquet, I am quiet while she,
she plays and likes to stand out like baby breath.

  Dandelion mouths sing and cradle
             sensitivity to sound.
I'm sure someone out there loves me,
            but I choose to hide.

IV.

   Ambition to produce the new,
       to reproduce the known,
  the first is best achieved alone,
          the second, with two.

V.

         Weakness is my gravity.

            The ugly reappears and
   I am alone, filled with fears—here, where ambition steers.

            My desires defocus
                      I try to lie

                             D
                                 o
                                     w
                                         n.

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