More Beautiful in France
for Cecilia
Women are more beautiful in France.
It happens the minute your plane crosses into French airspace.
It is because the men there think that all the people
who are women are enchanting. In France we are lovely
while working the crossword, brushing the crumbs off our chin,
tearing out bedraggle-headed to grab the bus. We are
beguiling as we choose among the eggplants or
absently peel the paper label off a bottle. In France,
the homeliest woman can stop time. Even when we stink,
the men in France then think of the most precious of aged Roqueforts,
the raw young purple onions of spring, or the crumbling letters
they still treasure from their first prostitute.
The sight of a woman at her table in solitude in a cafe
engenders pity in the Frenchman's throat.
He is powerless to do anything but
be seated with her, ask her her name, and
whether she enjoys the old films of Buñuel as much as he,
and she pities him in this helpless state of chivalry,
indulges his protectiveness, puts her textbook aside,
offers him a croissant, smiles, and says,
'Not as much as those of Cocteau.' And she says,
'What about all those ravens
that blackened the sky today when the steeplebells rang?'
And, 'I just realized that while most seashells
whisper the rushing waves, it must have been that
haunting wail in the whelks of Crete that gave rise to Bel Canto.'
And, 'Pardon me, my kind monsieur, but I must be going.'
The ache in his throat gets worse as he watches her rise, alone,
and walk. He would offer to escort her to her rendez-vous,
but these are modern times.
for Cecilia
Women are more beautiful in France.
It happens the minute your plane crosses into French airspace.
It is because the men there think that all the people
who are women are enchanting. In France we are lovely
while working the crossword, brushing the crumbs off our chin,
tearing out bedraggle-headed to grab the bus. We are
beguiling as we choose among the eggplants or
absently peel the paper label off a bottle. In France,
the homeliest woman can stop time. Even when we stink,
the men in France then think of the most precious of aged Roqueforts,
the raw young purple onions of spring, or the crumbling letters
they still treasure from their first prostitute.
The sight of a woman at her table in solitude in a cafe
engenders pity in the Frenchman's throat.
He is powerless to do anything but
be seated with her, ask her her name, and
whether she enjoys the old films of Buñuel as much as he,
and she pities him in this helpless state of chivalry,
indulges his protectiveness, puts her textbook aside,
offers him a croissant, smiles, and says,
'Not as much as those of Cocteau.' And she says,
'What about all those ravens
that blackened the sky today when the steeplebells rang?'
And, 'I just realized that while most seashells
whisper the rushing waves, it must have been that
haunting wail in the whelks of Crete that gave rise to Bel Canto.'
And, 'Pardon me, my kind monsieur, but I must be going.'
The ache in his throat gets worse as he watches her rise, alone,
and walk. He would offer to escort her to her rendez-vous,
but these are modern times.