There is as much me or you as a spoon-
ful of water or the constellation
of sailor tattoos slowly being wheeled
from her home under a deep red sheet.
The internet is unable to contain itself.
Newsfeeds scroll like the grey and blue
banded clouds ticking rain like thin
linens across the Seine. It makes sense
to say the sky is mixed, indecisive. July
isn’t sure what it wants to be anymore, but
I am always wrong—don’t have a feeling
about it. It’s strange how shame toddles
off on its own, almost getting lost,
then smacks into you like a tourist
at a crosswalk. The Haribo booth outside
Bastille by the pillar of magazines
with Kaddafi’s mug on the cover sells
giant gummy strawberries. I arrange
coins on my palm, but like everyday
I dip past it like a child hiding behind
her mother’s leg. I’ll say this preserves
my pattycake French. I want to ask what
it was like—a body wracked with passive
frailty that just stops. Was it smothering?
A sudden slipping? Something softer, then.
The knead of fabric under fingernails. A feel
of something stuck in yr teeth. Steady drip
in an upstairs sink. She responds in her way,
rising from snares and loops and crying out for hot soup.