The houses here are named La Vague and Chantebrise
like places in a childhood daydream,
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an actual lake filled with literal swans.
As a kid, I was most at home in the pages of a book,
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a bee sliding the banisters of the blue
delphinium. Apollinaire called his books,
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in the soft golden bindings of the period,
his blocks of butter. The sun here is like that,
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palpably stacked, flaking off the wavelets,
filling the boats with yellow flowers, crowning
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the heads of the young couple arguing, body and soul.
He calls her Pig, whore. Pig, whore,
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while she sobs and keeps trying to touch him.
I didn’t know it then, but when I was her
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age we were called borough girls: a little too
fashion-forward, filthy-mouthed, and ready
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to settle at seventeen. The older you get
the less surprised you think you can be,
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but when the bus with its Sans Voyageurs sign roars by,
I think of my child who won’t ever get born, ghost
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in a sunhat, shoulders narrow and pinked. A swan,
ungainly out of water, slaps up the shore to preen
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with its knobbed orange beak. Mallarmé wrote that
everything in the world exists in order to end up in a book.
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A golden book. Death, is not this the sunshine?
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