Some nights she walks down the Champs Elyseé
Young men kiss her, booming “bonne anné”
Before they lunge to turn over a stray bus.
On the jewelled neck of a city,
where a white refugee during the Cold War
is welcome still due to Napoleon -
She learns to love the night in Paris.
The bright orange-blue sky effortlessly covers
the day’s blemishes, tinting her cheeks with
the flamboyant make-up of “vin rouge”,
but calls upon cockroaches and rats
to hum and pulsate a treacle lullaby.
Embraced by flashes of inspiration,
with the look of a saint
the lightness of being wears her,
like the enigmatic beauty of prostitutes.
The city sparks infinite impressions,
the museums shelter with free culture on Sundays
and a shiny hospital reception hears her scream
in broken French – “Pourqois, le bébé?” -
for she does not want an abortion.
A middle-aged, well-groomed administrator
only worries about who is going to pay - either way.
If it’s only her mad body’s response to living rough,
surely, she is pregnant with a dream,
offering a bébé asylum -
Some nights she is woken by its crying,
Some nights it wets the bed
while she is far away, at home.
If you have any comments on this poem, Csilla Toldy would be
pleased to hear them.