The Cruel Account of My Monsieur Feuille de Papier

 by jeanne rené

Monsieur Feuille de Papier
you gawk at me
aloof and empty
blank
you mock my passion
these eyes prisoner
to your harsh and penetrating countenance
it sends chills
down my elastic spine

and i grovel
sup on the terror of your dismissal
my lucid sight grown transfixed at the hint
my red blood boiling
at the suggestion of making love to you

My Monsieur Feuille de Papier
i cannot exist without this making love to you
my lips to your pale face
give a barrage of manic kisses
writhe as i move you to my tango
my rhamba
my minuet of eloquence
of time
of place
of empathy
of the disgraced
Mon Monsieur dance
and laugh and drink this contemptible wine
i dare to spill

how you anger me
so fickle your affections
how you torture me
walking out
walking in
hours to days
when you abandon me
shriveled in some despairing universe
soused with only my disheveled name

then again
to return bounding into my quarters
just to kick my protruding stomach

i grow weak
  mais ce soir
  ce soir
  une page blanche . . . blanche
your face offers no clue
come
i beg, Mon Monsieur
come
dine on my fever
fulfill my rapture
prepare for me
a warm bath tapped with words dripping
from my severed vein


jeanne rené 11/04  

I Cannot Write Her Poetry

by jeanne rené 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The paper bag was fattened with unwanted information.
Requests for unavailable generosity,
political asylum at her kitchen table.
Fashions and recipes once flirtatious,
shredded by her own hand
as another wasteland bulged at her slippers.

But I could not write her poetry
as I brought her a bowl of vanilla ice cream.
I could not find the words to attack her world of solitude
and seal her smile.

So, I held her hand
and we’d walk up the steps to the old parlor.
She’d sit, talk while I stared at the shipwrecked life jacket, frame encased.
I'd wander into the kitchen with its heavy handle
and big hinged ice boxed gallery wall and listen.

I’d take her hand.
And we’d walk, pushing aside heavy curtains, dust illuminated,
making our way through the maze lit by red glass and tremulous flames.

At ninety-two if you asked her,
she’d laugh and throw up her hands, seizing her freedom
from the women who knew nothing, stepping outside her shelter.

But I cannot write her poetry,
I can only inhale the mystery filling my lungs.
I can only feel her warmth.

 

jeannerené  6/26