Her Name ...
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| Adeline N., Ridgefield, CT |
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By Christine S., Arlington, VA
“French flea markets and suicide,” she mumbled
She murmured memories
Memories I had not experienced with her
Making them foreign
Foreign as her French flea markets
Her mother from a quaint town there
In France, that is
What town?
I cannot remember
I have forgotten even the province
Perhaps I never even knew
But, anyway, this girl -
she speaks French
She is French
But French is not her
Her father is Greek
Greek descent
So Athena is not dancing on his tongue
Nay, King Arthur and Shakespearean verses instead
She cut her hair
This French and Greek girl
It was beautiful hair
Ebony
So unlike the flaxen hair of her first love
He was Irish
Or is
He’s still alive
I’m certain
At least in spirit
He was an actor
And actors never die
But she cut her hair
Shorn herself like a little sheep
Because she was sad
Despondent
Melancholy
However you prefer to describe it
I’m not a thesaurus
I’ll never understand why she cut it
She seemed so happy
With amber eyes glistening in the sun
And her name was ... well ... she was the
one who always muttered
“French flea markets and suicide ...
French markets and suicide ...”
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