Josephine
St. Louis wouldn’t have done that for you
oh, Josephine! all fringe and angles
my stomach knotted up in ways
I didn’t understand (later I’d
feel the same about a boy)
mostly your smile sashayed like
your hips begging me to get up
hand extended for a wild dance
as if somehow we could be friends
I was nine — my friends played
Barbies but I wanted contrast
letters on pages or electron beams
black and white everything
later I learned your rebellion
home wasn’t good to you either
taking that pony to Paris
much braver than I, or less safe
you got on a boat
you conquered another nation
you mothered their babies
you came back to tell us
if you know you have nothing
it’s so much easier to leap
and when you build a home
you’ll fight anything to protect it
when you died a young 68
Paris spilled over the Rue Royal
St. Louis wouldn’t have done that
for you, an arch less triumphant
my friend Thierry was nine
gawking over the sofa at you
and his maman in their Paris flat
he went back to his room
to play Cowboys and Indians
tired of poets and dancers and art
later he’d come to America and write
Parisian parlours into period novels
a cultural trade-off
