18 in Paris
BY ELIZABETH FALCON
Along the Seine the boys
dance like cockerels
& croon hymns to the galaxies
behind Orion’s
belt. They drum
the night soul
out of its pink pink
shell & block
all seventeen bridges
this race of androids
can’t stop crossing.
The boys call to me
in French. I don’t speak
French. I have fallen from the sky
& they want to sew me
a dress of clouds.
They know I hear
the singing.
My mother appears, a lifesaver
hurtling toward a girl being pleasured
by a treacherous swim. The boys
laugh, comfortable birds
out of the reach
of any death.
The laughter
like rotting meat.