<body><script type="text/javascript"> function setAttributeOnload(object, attribute, val) { if(window.addEventListener) { window.addEventListener('load', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }, false); } else { window.attachEvent('onload', function(){ object[attribute] = val; }); } } </script> <div id="navbar-iframe-container"></div> <script type="text/javascript" src="https://apis.google.com/js/plusone.js"></script> <script type="text/javascript"> gapi.load("gapi.iframes:gapi.iframes.style.bubble", function() { if (gapi.iframes && gapi.iframes.getContext) { gapi.iframes.getContext().openChild({ url: 'https://www.blogger.com/navbar.g?targetBlogID\0757793856\46blogName\75Orangette\46publishMode\75PUBLISH_MODE_BLOGSPOT\46navbarType\75BLACK\46layoutType\75CLASSIC\46searchRoot\75http://orangette.blogspot.com/search\46blogLocale\75en\46v\0752\46homepageUrl\75http://orangette.blogspot.com/\46vt\75-5071095333567389549', where: document.getElementById("navbar-iframe-container"), id: "navbar-iframe" }); } }); </script>

8.22.2004

Prose poem for Paris, inspired by an ugly tart

Oh Paris, your pastry is perfect. I’ll eat you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Paris, you kept me up until 3am and made me shy on the phone. You laid a blanket in the park and spread it with saucisson sec and fromages qui puent and we drank Champagne at two in the afternoon on your big day. Paris, I watched the eight o’clock news alone in your apartment and ate chaussons aux pommes in line at the movies, and I bought your small modern packages delivered by the small trucks that block your ancient streets.

Oh Paris, you gave me skirts with rabbit-fur trim and danger-sexy designer bags on sale. You told me I looked like Cleopatra. You said j’ai envie de te faire l'amour and you brought me croissants in the morning, and oh Paris, you looked away when I walked your streets red-eyed, holding a wad of Kleenex. You made me say stupid things and stay too long and we were so lonely together, you and I.

Paris, now you’re making me write like Allen Ginsberg in "America."
Oh Paris, Sundays in Seattle aren’t the same.

2 Comments:

Blogger stacy said...

Absolutely amazing poem, Molly - so fluid and casual and sad/happy simultaneously. Reminds me of a romantic and less cynical Billy Collins :) So glad I went back in your archives and found this!

I wish you wrote more poetry to share with us.

-Stacy

3:09 PM, April 07, 2011  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Do people comment to a post 9 years later? Yep.

This post made me smile. What single gal hasn't been there. The title is fabulous.

Honestly, I saw that your food blog was ranked in the top 10 but I really didn't understand why. It seemed to be more about your baby than anything else. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE babies! And yours is a beauty! Truly. I just wasn't expecting so much of it in a food blog that ranked so high.

Until this post. I can now see that it was a build up from single life with a 9 year evolution to married life with child.

I had to dig for the reasons. My curious nature, I suppose.

No need to respond or post this comment. Just had to say that your early writings are wonderful.

11:46 AM, September 15, 2013  

Post a Comment

<< Home