Dear Monique, stop splashing the bubbles around.
This book is priceless and I’m due
at Versailles. I’m supposed to petition
compassion from your icy countrymen.
I hold a check, not that we have money,
for Lafayette, also in love with a seat
in the front row. Lower your laughing.
This bathroom is not a bullring--you’ll startle
your husband, Jacques, the Royal Frog.
This is a curious drama. I read Dante,
mistranslated by that idiot Hancock, but steam
fogs my bifocals. Don’t call me Uncle Benjy.
Why don’t you vacation in the Carolinas? Your skin
is too perfect, too white. Eat more.
I prefer thickly-carpeted paths, strenuous
struggles of gloomy appearances. Excuse my panting.
I was raised Quaker and my wife eats potatoes
with every meal. Put your legs down,
I can’t see the door. My beliefs?
They are as if cut straight out
of The Bible but where your back narrows
I pray for the next ten generations
that you can’t reach that spot. Please,
don’t hurry: the croissants are still warm
and we’re only midway through the Inferno.
Fifty years ago when I wasn’t old
and fat my crazy mother
drew my baths, made me memorize
catechisms of diligence and planned prudence,
and near Philadelphia and stable borders the winds
howled as I walked under the storm,
the dark sky not large enough
to hide me, and floating Monique,
the lilac soap leaves a fine film
that must be done away with.
I am not a perfect politician.
I cannot see clearly the rebels gathering
in your French barns, disturbing
the sleeping animals. I turn my back
to them, like an optimistic matador.
I can smell everyone’s fear
but my seeds need to speak. Excuse me,
dear mother. You and America never taught me
about the beautiful cracks and rivers that now surround me
or how God died from fever in Florence in 1321.
The ribbon in your red wig has
come
undone. Move over, I feel so dirty.
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