LADY D’ARBANVILLE
Paris June 14, 1940
She enters his room,
slender legs encased in silky net,
small flowers caught in webbed designs,
stockings most women would sell their bodies for,
but she is not most women.
A single diamond on a chain around her throat,
faux gems woven in her hair, a shade of blonde
that has to be real as her gray eyes,
the color of ash on war torn ruins.
My Lady D’Arbanville, why do you sleep so still?
I’ll wake you when the tanks move further on,
when the blasts and the bleat of shots dies down
and the moon is low in the western sky.
You think you’ve taken Paris,
but I assure you we’re not done.
Das Fuhrer is a monster, soldier boy.
My Lady D’Arbanville, I know it’s you,
my comrades brag they’ve had you many times,
but with you in my arms, their words I can’t believe.
They say French girls are easy, pay them in cigarettes.
But all you ask is to kiss my Iron Cross—
liebchen, das Eisernes Kreuz is yours,
for just this night, I place it in your hand.
and drink your wine until my mind is fogged,
tell you anything you ask.
The dawn is near and you must go,
but first let’s lift another glass,
and I will spread my legs once more.
My Lady D’Arbanville, sleeping on so still?
Why do you pretend to lie as dead?
Wake and move beneath my loins again,
kiss my chest and grasp my neck,
for dawn is coming soon and I must go.
My brother is résistant Joseph Barthele,
he rages that your men have such contempt,
a scorn that sears us deeply, soldier boy.
My Lady D’Arbanville, open your eyes!
I pull up my pants, put on my boots,
and take the hand of my friend winter,
who follows me everywhere,
blowing horrendous thoughts into my ears.
We’ve cut the Eiffel Tower’s cables,
your swastika will never fly so high,
nor any flag besides our own, soldier boy.
My Lady D’Arbanville, still you slumber!
I must resume patrol on your black-and-white city,
while from your brothels’ balconies, laughter—
champagne pours down into the streets
cleansing the night of what we’ve done.
It is you who sleeps now, soldier boy.
Cold and clean as winter wind, this dagger’s kiss,
et merci for your secrets, solider boy.
She leaves his room,
slender legs encased in silky net,
small flowers caught in webbed designs,
confounding eyes that linger there,
the Lady D’Arbanville.