Brontophobia
“In the land where all is forgotten, where no one remembers
anything,/ birds cut off their beaks to share your
sorrow…” —Maggie Smith’s “Apologue (1)”
Madame couture sky donned a shawl
studded with charcoal pearl-clouds & silver spider
broaches. We
splurged. Two dozen
aubergine carnations gloved in newspaper
clambered above butter-cream roses & the electric
pink tulips spearheading from tin buckets.
Traffic & language.
As we tramped
ancient piquant France, high on luxury
of being & being alive
in a city abandoned by gods.
We slipped in & out of cafés,
sipped Bordeaux, pondered the angelic
architecture of gargoyles.
Boot-heels bit
into cobblestone. You
held me
by the elbow, led me into Shakespeare’s bookstore
then deserted me among embossed bindings.
Reposed on a bench, you sat statuesque,
handsome Venus, shadowed by cathedral’s
great winged buttresses, Cyclops’ stained
glass eye, map unfolded
in your lap. We crossed
the cemetery’s
threshold anyway.
Navigated the avenues
of the dead. Black oak
silhouettes
& inky tombstones backlit by rust-tinged evening.
Later, on the way to the restaurant, in the car,
inconsolable sky beat its chest.
Twice electricity
froze. Candlelight
lit our dishes.
Shadow-puppet mice
danced for crumbs. You
ordered:
truffle-ribboned foie gras; blue-veined
cheese;
cured meats sliced into film; glazed duck served
on a bed of white asparagus.
Amidst downpour,
chatter, dining in warm savory dark, you
fed me & I, you, while autumn, that floral-breathed
dragon stretched its wings, & winter, that straw-
breathed beggar prepared for nativity.
