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,
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.