poem: matrimonium

for very small moments

my life is beautiful. there is Paris

in a mason-jar,

girls kissing

boys on the sidewalk, rain coming

like piano jazz. the baby is crying for me,

lisping Maman Maman; he is like

his father. And we

were like staccato-ed beats: small

carnivals of mirth, small

hollows in the neck, your hands

tangled in the curtains and the covers,

the palm fronds sprouting wet

and ready from my head.

 

now we are ancient grand cities

built by romans

and ignored and admired by

the rutting young people.

 

now we shut the windows

to let the pink light come; we are

glass in a storm.

we are dying languages

spoken

only by the baby, his wailing

MamanMamanMaman

reminding me that I am here,

that I am not yet forgotten.