Pursuit

At one, you lobstered me. Or was it

in an indulgent womb you tattooed me?

A milky lake—a stain fold under the knee.

You sought me out by hoarding rain

and roses. You inked my smooth pages

purple, red, green; chalked my back,

a blackboard, Monsieur le Maître.

How you cultivate the addict in me—

ditch me on Main Street, hot-littered

with same-name fast foods. Forget

my name in airports. Trench-coat

accost me at the museum—I was gutted

girlhood in Paris. At my pseudo-suicide

on a frozen Schloß canal, I threw in

a bunch of words. Out flew Alpine pines,

snow, and birds. I wanted my fern forts

back, my bullish fields, my Trégor beaches,

my multicolor tunic and how I felt in it.

Adieu to gorse moors, mam goz, crêpes,

and dolmens. Enter ballerina, saint,

mistress, bumblebee. Besides, cache-cache

exhausts me. So, take me, supersonic

bulge, or rather, I’ll take you, like Philippe

the sky: skirt the gate guards, step out

between ghost towers with my candy-cane

balance, walk out amid crosscurrents,

and face you, giant, fearsome unsaid.