Traci Brimhall | Poetry
for Marcelo and Janine
My teacher tells me, madame
we cannot write that you wept in public
more than once. This is
not a French sentence.
Instead let us write that you were moved
to action.
For revolutionaries smashed
the stone face of the Virgin
with the stone face of Saint Denis—
the Virgin a lover, finally!
On streets, I place my hand
inside pocks
shot into limestone walls. In bookshops,
lithographs burn palaces, carriages,
and children. The check-in girl refuses
my identification card.
Okay. This year I’ve enough
nods and stamps that this
does not hurt me. For I have left America.
I have left America!