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 café 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.


Pregnant Lady Be Ready

Strangers will stare.
They'll hoot and holler
about ice cream for two,
insist on carting your bag,
and wonder
if you can do your job,
if so, how long and whether
you pass gas. They will know
you've had sex. They'll picture
you having sex, your clothes off.
You, at this moment, can't remember
if you just shoved your gown aside.
You remember how the wind shook
the windows. They will say your life
is never the same; you'll never sleep again.
And then they'll tell you they make pancakes
while thanking the good heavens their kid
didn't mess his pants past five.
Strangers will lay hands on you.
They'll point out
eye sockets and elbows,
show you shadows.
Like a gypsy in one story,
or fairies in another,
they will come
after your fate.