Un Cri De Coeur

                                    Today--le Samedi--I rise to la vie Francaise.
                                    A thin snow blankets the grass of the yard.
                                    Over gas-blue flames I warm milk sprinkled with sugar
                                    And mix it in equal parts with black-brewed coffee.
                                    I drink my café au lait from a blue-glazed bowl,
                                    A Christmas gift a student once made for me.
                                    On the bowl are the words: Satisne caloris?
                                    It is not French, naturellement, but Latin:
                                    Is it hot enough for you?
                                    Oui. Mais il fait froid aussi. Il fait tres froid.
                                    This morning I am cold, numb to the bone.
                                    The sweater you gave me, so warm, so chaud,
                                    Cannot keep away this chill in me.

                                   At noon the snow, la neige, stops.
                                    I drive to the Bi-Lo. The asphalt lot shimmers.
                                    In the brightness cast by the fallen snow
                                    My face floats along the windows
                                    Outside the store. That window woman, moi,
                                    Does not look tragic enough to be French. Not yet.
                                    I glide the aisles, making my selections:
                                    Le pain, le jambon, du frommage, le vin blanc.
                                    A checkout boy, innocent as snow, rings me up.
                                    Above his right pocket a printed tag reads, Hi, I’m Justin.
                                    As he counts back my change, a smile twists my face.
                                    “J’ai tres triste aujourd’hui, Justin.” But Justin has turned
                                    To joke with Sally, who says to me, “Paper or plastic?”
                                    Ah, les jeunes. Peuvent-ils connaitre les blesses?
 
                                    At home I nibble my petit dejeuner and drink vin blanc.
                                    Bits of crusty pain fall into my lap. The jambon
                                    Tastes rubbery; the frommage catches in my throat.
                                    Carefully I wrap the cheese and ham in plastic and
                                    Put them in the refrigerator. Through the window I see
                                    Sparrows shaking snow from the bushes in the yard.
                                    On the Internet I pull up a page of Le Monde.
                                    I pour more wine and scan an article while I drink:
                                    La flamme olympique s’eleve, en attendant la fievre.
                                    As I wash up the dishes, I listen to the Piaf disc
                                    You burned for me last fall. Her voice evokes
                                    Sparrows and cigarettes, whores and dead soldiers.
 
 
                                    Je n’ai regrette pas. Des nuits d’amour.
                                    Je vois la vie en rose.
 
                                    Les blesses means wounds in English. Are wounds
                                    Some sort of blessing? Some score of celestial tunes?
 
                                    The phone rings. “Bonjour?” Il fait froid. Tres froid.
                                    “Betsy?” C’est ma mere. “Is that you, Betsy?”
                                    “Betsy non ici.” Not here. Not here. “Au revoir.”
                                    The phone rings again. When I do not answer,
                                    Ma mere leaves a message on the machine.
                                    “Betsy, it’s Mom. Andrea told me about Michael.
                                    Oh, sweetie, I’m sorry. I’m sure you could just scream.
                                    Talk to me, won’t you? Are you there? Betsy?
                                    Pick up if you’re there, dear. I understand
                                    How much you must be hurting. Please.” She pauses.
                                    “I’ll try again later. Call me, sweetie, if you can.”
 
                                    I don’t return the call. Ma mere est toujours avec moi.
                                    I put on my boots and gloves and that long blue overcoat
                                    You said reminded you of college girls and winter fests.
                                    I walk through the snowy neighborhood. Ambles-toi?
                                    I am thirty-five years old. I live alone. I pay rent.
                                    I teach English literature at Knoxville Catholic.
                                    For three years I studied French in high school.
                                    I recite classroom French to myself as I walk in the snow.
                                    J’entre dans la salle de classe.
                                    Je regard autour de moi.
                                    Ou est la biblioteque?
                                    Il meme change ma chanson.
                                    Je t’aime.
                                    Oh God.
 
                                    On Church Street I stop at Movie-Time and browse
                                    And rent Casablanca on DVD. At home again
                                    I scrunch up on the sofa beneath my blanket,
                                    Drinking more wine while I observe the goings-on
                                    At Ric’s Café Americain. I keep replaying
                                    The part where Yvonne sings La Marseille
                                    With tears in her eyes. Her passion makes me weep.
                                    Aux armes, citoyans. Formez battalions.
                                    Vive La France.
 
                                    Yvonne reminds me of Madame Grenier.
                                    Madame wore print dresses and loved Paul Verlaine.
                                    In my senior year she drummed his verse into us:
                                    Les sanglots longs/Des violins…
                                    Baiser! Rose tremiere au jardin des caresses!
                                    Adieu mon Coeur…on te jette au malhour.
                                    The long sobs…to kiss…farewell my heart.
 
                                    I am no great lover of things French.
                                    I don’t admire Levy, the Louvre, or haut cuisine,
                                    Although I do adore Renoir, a taste you called pedestrian.
                                    I have never visited France. I have no desire.
                                    I don’t even lament the idea that France may be dying,
                                    That in our time haut couture may well be a pink burka,
                                    That Notre Dame may well become some imam’s mosque.
                                    Plus sa change, plus c’est la meme chose.
 
                                    No--I am French today to disjoint my self,
                                    To separate me from me and me from you.
                                    A toi, Michael: Mais ce n’est pas possible.
                                    Pas possible.
                                    Je t’aime. Je ne t’aime pas.
                                    Je t’aime. Je ne t’aime pas.
                                    Did you know that the French call a daisy a marguerite?
                                    Was I your marguerite, Michael?
                                    Did you enjoy plucking me?
                                    Je t’aime. Je ne t’aime pas.
 
                                    Tu es mon ange, Michael, mon amour,
                                    Mais tu es aussi un salaud.
 
                                    Au revoir lies softer on the heart than good-bye.
                                    Could you not have said au revoir?
 
                                    When darkness falls, the snow falls with it,
                                    Large flakes whirling like bits of angel wings.
                                    By morning the snow will cover everything.
                                    Mon Dieu
                                    My God
                                    Dans ma Coeur froid
                                    In my cold heart
                                    C’est seulement la Mort.
                                    There is only death.