You had made your presence known
by then- abstracted
into two positive pink lines
like the Rothko your father and I will see
two years later at the MoMA
For now, we ride the two vertical tracks
Eurostar; a world tucked inside an ocean
The sharp Parisian chicness is dulled
by the October grey and rusting trees
that line the boulevards, the faint tang
of bile that rises at the smell of hot cheese
The angles of the Louvre sit at odds
with the roundness of me
and you, the world still needs to soften a bit –
although your father explained
to the maître de that I need my eggs
well cooked. He mimes a belly bump
In the early hours, I open
the shuttered windows
onto the alley beneath
our hotel, parallel lines converging
into a narrowness, where an old lady
sits on a porch. Her eyes leak
the fullness of moonlight, and she hums a quietness
which I wonder if you can hear
as slight waves – the curved undulations
premonitions of your smile
One day – daughter – when your limbs have unfurled
and you’ve outgrown mine –
we’ll travel together. Of course,
we’ll do the usual itinerary – Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triumph
all those long strong structures cutting
the skyline but then we’ll find that cafe
in Place Dauphine and in that square
I’ll show you how your father
conceived your shape with his hands
Makes me want to go back to Paris. Such a beautiful place and an elegant poem worthy of this great city.