Dejeuner du Matin, Ce Matin

Fourty-four, married, two kids, I'm wandering
through Jacques Prevert like a kid kicking fall
when suddenly Kellogg Middle School,
Mr. Pierre's 7th grade French class. I'm fat.
My buckle back jeans bulge. I am afraid
of the Ayatolah Humani and the girl
who slammed Kiki's head in the lockers.
With smudged pencil I've filled in
the verb "to be," badly. And then I turn and I am
at a cafe in Paris. It's coming through my skin,
the sound of the spoon against the cup,
the sound of the rain, the sound of the chair scraping
as the man rises and leaves without a word.
Some day I will touch the back of a man's hand
at the base of the Eiffel Tower. Some day
I will sip history from snail shells.
Some day I will love beyond understanding.
I put my head in my hands and I cry.

Deborah Bacharach
Elohi Gadugi Journal, October 2013


http://egjournal.org/issue/fall-2013/article/dejeuner-du-matin-ce-matin/