simone



simone
her name sounds of parisian cafes at night, outdoors
the soft smoke lifting from her fluttering lips,
rarely still as she speaks of her weather-worn aluminum apartment,
cut-outs in the ceiling give a good view of the stars;
when it rains it's an occasion for a natural shower.

simone
shifts under the shadow of white tabletop
crossing and uncrossing her legs like a nervous flamingo, 
her one foot poised on the white pool of concrete;
she stares with espresso eyes, intensely
seeking to impress her charm on conversing minds.

simone 
says she has no father, no brother, no lover --
they died in bosnia amidst bullet-ridden civil war,
temporaries seeking work as first-world volunteers
until the french economy would engulf them again;
she never saw their bodies
anonymously, they were clubbed or bulletted or mutilated 
into obscure skin and muscle.

she smiles
flicks her ashes in the parisian wind
same as the wind that moved marie antoinette's hair
matted with her freshly-guillotined blood,
a prelude to the jacobins' purge massacres
in the country's struggle to blow free the crown
that constrained democracy and equality;

it is september again.

simone 
says it is a good time for rain and babies.



--jennifer crystal chien