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Two poems
from America that island off the
coast of France |
Le Petit Hameau
de La Reine At Versailles, in this toy hamlet, Marie Antoinette, Queen of France— daughter of a queen, granddaughter of a queen mother of daughters who would die princesses— played at being milkmaid. In the same petit hameau my daughter Magdalena, plays at being Queen— her mother a professor who wants to be a poet, her grandmother a teacher who wanted to be a doctor, her great-grandmother a wife who wanted to be loved— Why do humans have such unhappy aspirations? Around us, sheep decorate the long meadows of the hamlet--sheep whose mothers were sheep, whose grandmothers were sheep-- back into the woolly mists of time. Sheep who wish for nothing else, ewes and lambs who, unhurried, crop the grass. |
The City
Where—I’m Told-—My Mother Was Young Long ago the lens of a camera uprooted this city from Sacre Coeur to the far suburbs, pressed it between the heavy vellum of memory, so to reach it is to cross a bridge much longer, much steeper than the Pont Neuf. In this paper Paris, my mother is a young girl waiting for her lover by a stinking canal. Or so I’ve been told by people who might —or might not—lie to my face. I pour over Atget’s photographs, each street, each boulevard, each arrondisement falling under his care, falling into his camera and out of this world. But photographs are illusions, devoid of both pot au feu and the garbage the cook leaves—though Atget photographed laundries as well as bordellos. I imagine my mother leaving me a message by way of Atget. I close my eyes and think I hear laughter and telephones ringing—but I’m wrong. I walk over the bridge Atget made with his stiff little pictures and find myself in the Gare du Nord, all steam, white and gray. And my mother, ma mere— is standing on the platform waiting. She has always been waiting. Unless—instead—she never did arrive. Long ago this city uprooted Triste, I imagine her saying, so goddamn sad. |