A song, a picture and a poem. It’s up to you to decide how they fit together.
I tell myself that I can handle this.
He’s just sick
speaking French to me, frantically
his dark hands fluttering
his chapped lips so close to my cheek
they’ll catch in my hair.
This is part of life in this city.
I count down from ten
close my book
and then give up my seat,
pushing my way through the
crowds of after work weary.
They part, disgruntledly
for me and my French King
who is now following me,
stepping where I step, still
We are stalled here, waiting on the next
express train and then the next
and then the one after that.
I step out onto the platform
and cut into the next subway car,
and he comes with me,
my French King.
He is singing me love songs now
Je vais vous tuer dans votre sommeil
He is promising me a lifetime of love
if he can just bite off the tip of each of my fingers.
He will build me a castle in the clouds
if I will live one year in the tunnels with him and the other monsters.
His own hands fluttering behind me
in time with my heart.
He wants to know why. Why? Why?
Pourquoi? Pourqoui? Ou vas-tu ma chere?
I promise, yes, yes, my King. Whatever you wish.
Just leave me be.
And weave into the next car
Where he joins me and it is no better.
People wait and they watch us
waiting for my French King and I to set
down the money can
and perform for you
a broken ragdoll opera
I as the Queen
he as the King
The steady thump of my heart
is the drumbeat
in this song
His French words
the high wavering violin that plays for all of us
and our dance, lasting well into the night
even hours later on the couch,
with my husband’s warm hand on my leg
and the King’s whisper still there
brushing my cheek
cooling the once hot tea in my hand.