Collected Poems

I was not quite twenty when I first went down

into the stone chasms of the City of Lights,

every morning four flights creaking under my rubber soles.

At the end of each dim hall, a tiny window tipped

toward the clouds admitted light into

those loveless facilities shared by

the shameful poor and the shamelessly young.

Girded, then, with youth and good tennis shoes,

I climbed down guided

by the smell of bread,

the reek of multiplying yeast.

With my seven words of French,

with my exact change I walked

the storefronts where the double-plated

windows were as coolly arranged

as a spray of bridesmaids:

bazooka sausages, fields of silk,

“ladies’ foundations” in winch-and-pulley configurations,

and at last, squadrons of baked goods:

croissants glazed in the sheen of desire,

the sweating dark caps of the têtes de nègres,

nipples gleaming on the innocent beignets;

I surveyed them, each in its majesty,

and stepped over the tinkling threshold,

instantly foreign: une baguette et

cinq croissants beurre, s’il vous plait.

There were five of us, five girls.

Banknote and silver

crossed palms and I was outside again,

awash in a rush of Peugeots and honking

delivery vans.

For a moment I forgot which way to turn,

what the month was, the reason for

my high-pitched vigilance—

then it came back: turn left, cross

the avenue, dodge poodle shit

and tsking nannies. It was October.

Sweat faded into the terried insteps

of my miraculous American sneakers

while the sour ecstasy of bread

(its chaste white wrapper rustling,

the brown heel broken off)

calmed me.

It’s an old drama, waiting.

One grows into it,

enough to fill the boredom . . .

it’s a treacherous fit.

Mother worried. Mother with her frilly ideals

gave me money to call home every day,

but she couldn’t know what I was feeling;

I was doing what she didn’t need to know.

I was doing everything and feeling nothing.

corn in the husk

vine unfurling

Autumn soured. Little lace-up boots

appeared on the heels of shopkeepers

while their clientele sported snappier versions;

black parabolas of balcony grills

echoed in their three-inch heels.

Two days of rain, how to spend them?

Clip on large earrings, man’s sweater, black tights;

walk an old umbrella through the passage

at number 17, dip in for chocolat chaud

while watching the Africans

fold up their straw mats and wooden beads.

There was love, of course. Mostly boys:

a flat-faced engineering student from Missouri,

a Texan flaunting his teaspoon of Cherokee blood.

I waited for afterwards—their pale eyelids, foreheads

thrown back so the rapture could evaporate.

I don’t believe I was suffering. I was curious, mainly:

How would each one smell, how many ways could he do it?

I was drowning in flowers.

I visited a former schoolmate who’d married

onto the Île—a two-room attic walk-up

crammed with mahogany heirlooms,

but just lean over the offensive tin sink in the kitchen

and there she was, Our Lady, crusty with gargoyles.

The party they threw for Armistice Day

was cocktails with bad sculpture,

listening for meaningful conversation

among expatriate Americans lounging against the upright coffins.

– How’re you liking it so far? I admit, you

gotta dodge shit every place you look.

– What about them little white poodles

stamped on sidewalks everywhere? Aren’t

they meant for curbing?

– Yeah, but Parisians love their dogs too

much. Besides, Parisians don’t mind dog

shit because it’s not their shit, you see; it

makes them feel superior.

are you having a good time

are you having a time at all

There were crudités, peanuts. Banjos appeared, spilling

zeal like popcorn. I decided to let this party

swing without me.

Cross the Seine, avoid Our Lady’s

crepuscular shadow. Chill at my back.

One round of Boul’ Mich: bookstore, kiosk,

heat blast from the metro pit. Down, then.

And if I refuse this being

which way then?

Three stops, out: moonlit façade

of the Marais, spun-sugar stucco and iron filigree:

a retinue of little dramas

tucked in for the night.

Through the gutters, dry rivers

of the season’s detritus.

Wind soughing the plane trees.

I command my knees to ignore the season

as I scuttle over stones, marking pace

by the intermittent evidence of canine

love: heaped droppings scored with frost.

Near Beaubourg, even the air twitters.

Racks of T-shirts cut from

inferior cloth, postcard stands, all

the assumed élan and bric-a-brac

dissolves with a turn

that pitches me onto the concrete brim

of the Centre Pompidou.

Mon Dieu, the wind!

My head fills with ice.

This is how the pit opens

Sheared of its proletarian stubble

(brothels and cheap hotels),

this bulldozed amphitheater

catches the iron breath of winter, sending

tourist and clochard into the breach,

dachshund and snapped umbrella,

each stubborn leaf and exiled twig

swirling into whatever that is

down there, throbbing with neon tubing

like some demented plumber’s diagram

of a sinner’s soul—

This is how one foot

sinks into the ground

God, humans are a noisy zoo—

especially educated ones armed with vin rouge

and an incomprehensible no-act play.

The crush, the unbearable stench!

They insist on overheating these affairs,

as if to remind the leftist bourgeoisie

just who wove those welcome mats

they wipe their combat boots on.

Rad Chic: black corduroy and

leather vests. The saints were right

to flog the body, or starve it into heaven.

I need a divertissement:

The next one through that gate,

woman or boy, will get

the full-court press of my ennui.

Merde,

too many at once! Africans,

spilling up the escalator

like oil from lucky soil—

let me get my rules straight.

Should I count them as singular

plural, like popcorn?

Or can I wait for one person

to separate from the crowd,

chin lifted for courage, as if to place

her brave, lost countenance

under my care . . .

After the wind, this air

imploded down my throat,

a hot, rank syrup swirled with smoke

from a hundred cigarettes.

Soft chatter roaring. French nothings.

I don’t belong here.

She doesn’t belong, that’s certain.

Leather skirt’s slipped

a bit: sweet. No gloves? American,

because she wears black badly.

I’d like to see her in chartreuse,

walking around like a living

after-dinner drink.

He inclines his head, rather massive,

like a cynical parrot. Almost a smile.

“Puis-je vous offrir mes services?”

Sotto voce, his inquiry

curls down to lick my hand.

Standard nicety, probably,

but my French could not stand up

to meet it.

“Or myself, if you are looking.”

I whisper this. I’m sure she doesn’t understand.

“Excuse, I thought you were French.

You are looking for someone?”

“Yes, I’m . . . sure he’s here somewhere.”

Here you are.

“I hope he won’t let himself

be found too soon. A drink?”

He’s gone and back, as easily as smoke,

in each hand a slim glass

alive with a brilliant lime.

“What time is it?”

she blurts,

shrinking from the glass.

“À minuit. Midnight.

The zero hour,

you call it?”

Again the dark smile.

“Some call it that.”

“Chartreuse,” I say, holding out a glass,

“is a tint not to be found au naturel

in all of France, except in bottles

and certain days at the Côte d’Azur

when sun performs on ocean what

we call un mirage, a—”

“trick of light.” I take the glass,

lift it to meet his.

if I whispered to the moon

I am waiting

if I whispered to the olive

you are on the way

which would hear me?

I am listening

the garden gone

the seed in darkness

the city around me

I am waiting

it was cold I entered

you rise into my arms

I entered for warmth

I part the green sheaths

a part of me had been waiting

I part the brown field

already in this cold longing

and you are sinking

who has lost me?

through heat the whispers

be still, mother whispers

through whispers the sighing

and let sorrow travel

through sighing the darkness

be still she whispers

I am waiting

and light will enter

you are on your way