the waves were so cold
that hit my body,

came crashing onto me all 
at once, overruling a resolution to lower 

part (tiny holes in the blanket)

by (kissing you as for air)

part (spots of light scattered across our faces) 

into the salty water.
it was you, carrying me tightly over 

the ocean-sand threshold,
who made me a mermaid bride.

in my pink bikini, I
was human, but when

you kissed me 
between sheets of icegreen water,

I grew fins and gills,
wildfanned tail, wavylight hair,

splashed under the blanket of clear sea,
the cool shock of being born.  
 

Ghazal of a Day   

I want you to parade with me again down the hotel hallway,
Hide in the ice room, and tell me you have a boner.

I want you to come back to life for one night, sit in the audience,
And with blue eyes, return my red smile.

If the rain could only keep sounding on the bathroom skylight,
And in the low patter, a car would skid lightly at the stop sign.

I want the dark to be full and warm, to swallow, 
And sleep to come like the first sips of wine.

I can see the moon carved out above the parking lot, 
Shining brighter for want of something to shine on.

I fight against your memory,
And the airplane trails that scar the sky.

But I won’t let the grass prick my back.
I am where I am supposed to be.

Leave me in the field until the stars poke through,
I wasn’t meant to watch them with you.

M. LaRoche

“From my office,” M. LaRoche said,
“One can see le Tour Eiffel.”
I always wanted to ask him--
What I never asked him was--
What was weird between us was--
Vous avez toujours voulu faire ça?
Have you always wanted to do that?
Have you always wanted to be un photographe?

When I had girls over, 
He became official,
Took the lint and letters 
Out of Mlle. LaRoche’s top drawer, 
Spread them out on the salon
Rug, and arranged them in little piles
For little French reasons.

I asked him:
-Is it okay if we watch a movie?
-Vous avez déjà demandé à Mademoiselle…?
-No, I forgot. Is it okay?
-Normalement, on demande à la propriétaire…
-I know, but I forgot. Is it okay?
-Normalement, on demande…
-Please?
-Normalement…

“While I am out of the country,” 
Explained Mlle. LaRoche,
“My brother will stay 
With you.” My mother said
It wouldn’t do. Fifty-year-old men
Do not watch over young girls 
In drafty apartments unless they are 
Nabokov or Balthus.

A bourgeois event photographer 
In too-tight pants and glasses, 
Always turning on Ave Daumesnil 
At the moment I was kissing 
Someone goodbye or smoking 
A cigarette. Meticulously
Slicing tomatoes in the kitchen
When I skirted by, wanting to eat
But it wasn’t my turn, so I found 
Satisfaction elsewhere.

One night I came home soaked
In red wine, and sat next to him.
I’d staged a perfect Humbert
Opéra. My door was always half- 
Open, but he kept his eyes fixed
On his sister, and God.

He looked down
With important purpose 
Each time I scurried from the bathroom,
Leaving soap prints
Across the creaky floor,
To my forbidden room.

-- Joan Schadt