Put on your lipstick and glamour trappings, we
are stepping out among the glitz bunnies. Please don’t blink too quickly, you
might miss the vibrations of youth
pouncing on every pore, leaving trails
of glitter like jazz in winter.
In Paris, the painted claws of winter
could bite through your sleek coat, so we
swam through the warm Metro trails
where thin-lipped accordion players could please
plump tourists with umbrellas reliving their youth;
where musky, dirt-fingered businessmen wanted to touch you.
There were certain nights that waited for you
to appear in red-tipped heels with winter
spelled out across your face, where youth
counted against you, and dark street corners said “We
can’t let you walk where you please,
not where the true citoyens of Paris blazed longer and deeper trails.”
And it seemed as through every trail
we came upon was strewn with rubies – you
can’t touch, don’t spoil illusion – please –
everything sparkled the brighter against the white of winter.
And the air breathed violins soaked in wine, and we
ignored everything but our beauty and our femininity and our youth.
We tumbled into places where youth
reigned; all languages spoken, where most trails
ended and most brews served. We
fused with life and with breath. “Mademoiselle, you
have the most beautiful eyes.” Don’t shove me out into winter,
I’m hardly through. It’s only three o’clock. Please –
Our fingertips felt cold as we retreated with no thank you or please
from the man who held the door for the befuddled youth.
Heels struck cement with biting teeth, and winter
was again upon our visages. Trails
of expensive cigarettes sulked in the gutters; you
tilted my head to the sky to yell: “We
are not the real queens! Don’t please yourself following trails
of silver, because youth is quick and you
know in your bones that we can’t build bonfires in winter.”
