Vol 3 No 1 2009
Paris In August
Where does my grief—not knowing
it is grief—attempt to hide?
Oh, so now I have your complete attention, says grief.
The tenor sings at 6 am, an aphrodisiac’s
sorrowful opera. I am half asleep
in my nightgown, mourning in the corner
of temporary. In your arms, only my
ear craves the city’s cadent heart.
Nevertheless, your body reeks of desire.
May I hide in the boudoir?
Yes.
Bring me French-cut anything and
a mirrored fitting room. All of me,
perfect. Bring me the dress shop in The Marais
whose sign reads, Opera Gowns, Closed.
Bring me your soul on a wooden tray
with an uncorked bottle of Beaujolais
and no glasses to sip from. I guzzle and
spill, and stain livid, neck and breast.
I utter broken French.
Name the body, won’t you?
Standing on the steps of the d’Orsay?
Do you hear Opera in August
when only the hollowed hear? Our city
in her abandoned beauty has everything
to do with my unfinished pain, dull
as grief and its inarticulation.
Catherine Strisik