~ Delta Poetry Review ~

Gap Year

James rents a lonely-guy studio apartment
from the woman across the way,
her flowered apron and marshmallow-breasted
kindness makes up for their language
challenges, C’est bien.

He has one window where there are
no leaves pressed up against it; the wind
has lulled and stopped its bullying
in the narrow corridor outside his new home.

He sees his new landlady in her kitchen.
Through lace curtains he watches
as she rubs butter under the skin
of a chicken big enough for two of her.
She makes espresso in an ancient pot
before popping to the shop for turnips
and he misses home for just a minute.

In the morning hour, wakened by damp fog
and bicycle bells, James crosses
the cobbles for ficelles and coffee
with Madame Marshmallow and her husband,
who paints houses. James dunks his homemade
apricot-jammed bread in his coffee, then sips
the oil slick of caffeine as he listens to them
talk about their day. High-pitched and quick,
he understands nothing.

James crosses back toward his own work,
the Boucherie at the bottom of his stairs.
Not only does he cut interesting roasts,
he makes sausages, and cooks too.
The smells waft up the dim stairwell
to his apartment and decide for him what
his dinner will be. Wednesday is pork chop day,
his favorite. He cooks them downstairs,
uses his only pot for rice, it is a good day.

The year comes and goes but James is still
a stranger, and the time has come to go home.
He hugs Madame et Monsieur, takes one last
mercy meal at their table, and goes out into
the lowering sun to meet the taxi waiting at the corner.

Her Life is an Edward Hopper Painting

Lord God Almighty but she could put a hurt on a man—
hair up, wrapped in a smooth chignon, she leans back,
glow from a thousand fireflies of motel blinds
shines it red as the sun in summer. A tight boiled-wool
skirt halfway up to hail Mary full of grace, shoes
to bring her eye to eye with the deep lines in your weathered
face.

She is the nightwind, the motel clerk, the diner waitress
rolled into the fantasy you’ve had since forever.
She’s the bartender and barmaid—
sometimes your desire. At others your regret.
In truth, this is your story. You are the one with shoulders
tight as the traffic that winds through the city,
not her.

She’s a bit dusty, like a wedding dress never worn,
packed away in a chest in the closet. Her cheeks the deep
rose of a hot desert wind. Her lips pursed—
with disdain or delight—it’s impossible to tell.
She’s the wildflowers no one can name, windchimes
caught in a forgotten tune. A time-stamped photograph
of empty, she sits with her coffee, silent and alone.