by Craig Nix
You wanted to express
oil from the sea glass washed ashore
at Sete, and pluck
unripen oranges from the trespassed orchard
outside Beziers, and spank
the children building castles
along Cote d’Or. You skipped
stones on the Rhone casting wishes
with each glance, your body pressed
into mine after growing
tired of the sport. Then taught
me to curse – lamenting
the bitter dish of figs that promised
honeyed bliss.
You smoked unfiltered cigarettes
listening to the Stones, dancing fiercely,
naked while I sliced a stale baguette
and drank your rescued wine.
And when the bombed train to Lyons kept us
in Arles an extra night, you came repeatedly
wanting your native land with me
beside you on its rocky shore. You said:
“La vie dure, ca c’est la vie bonne”
as the supple paper, peeled
from your cigarette, let tobacco fall
and scatter on the slated floor.
My love wears cotton dresses now
as we lie on the hard place
we call home:
cremes and teas and casseroles,
meant to bring peace and fix us
firmly to a Midwest soil
where beans and corn supplant
a mystery unborn.
Then, roosting on a neighbor’s lawn
a fist of pigeons recall
your green linen skirt set
against the mottled stones outside Sarlat.
Craig was born in Paterson, New Jersey, but living in Indiana, his writing likely reflects more of a Midwest influence. Retired now, he and his wife raised two boys who have since escaped their grasps. His work has appeared in Landlocked Lyres The Zephyr Review, and Crescendo Magazine. He also hosts a variety of local reading and writing events.
