I stand, unsteady, before the room.
À Paris, le mois d’octobre.
What am I to teach them?
How can I show them
what it is to talk;
how to cut the thoughts down to word-shapes,
and coax the heart, and tongue, into speaking?

Conditionals, perhaps?
The language of what could never be,
or what might have been.
English is forgiving-
it has no proper subjunctive,
but it makes provisions for the unreal;
it allows the imaginary its own clauses.

And this classroom I love
this stage, this castle-
is a prison,
is a desert,
is a small, small box.

The French have no word for kindness
which is very telling, I find.
They also struggle with a thistle,
a thorn,
thirsty, and a thunderstorm.
But Spanish,
Spanish has three words for love.

The time for paseo is behind us.
Le pont Bir-Hakeim, le Grand Palais,
Les Champs, la Butte, le Marais...
The French and their lisping will just have to wait.
Now I have only myself,
and my s-s-sth-thoughts,
for company.

I told you once,
and it was in Spanish, creo yo,
I can hardly remember,
but I told you once-
the heart was never designed to break
in Paris, or in English.