They
Steve
De France
Here is perfume of crushed roses,
a framed jesus walking petaled walls,
here they walk between doilies & new testaments.
They appear like polka dot flowers in jersey,
plugging up passages in supermarkets,
counting paper clips, unfolding coupons,
cashing a single check each month.
Not like the exaggerated women of Baudelaire
thrown like a projected skeleton before a
But quietly some drawing breath in pain
they come back to their room,
where long into the night climbing moon
they listen to distant police sirens
& whirling helicopters
street sounds — squealing tires — women screaming.
They start at each real & imagined sound as
terrorists from the television news
come for their sex,
they touch bibles & check
the locks & chains again.
Will the sun ever come again?
At last the first frail flashes of sunlight,
show a preamble — then the genesis of another day,
opening with sure fingers white reality
a mailbox a 97 chevy a black dog
a milkman or is it a mailman?
They rise to fish teeth in glasses.
Take tea in a hand painted tea cup,
never mind its chipped, things simply are.
As they open the window shade
to stare at the new grey day,
death does not seem so real now.
It is not unquiet in a quiet room,
it is quiet in a quiet room,
here is perfume of crushed roses,
a framed jesus walking petaled walls.
Steve
De France is a widely published poet, playwright and essayist.
Nominated for a Pushcart Prize in Poetry in 2002 and 2003, Steve has recently
been published in The Wallace Stevens Journal, The Mid-American Poetry
Review,