Photograph by Amy Hart
When we danced,
the neighbors complained,
striking a broom handle
against their ceiling-
Les Americans!
They chided us
for never polishing
our share of the stairs.
We would find them
heads together, clucking,
poking at our sacks
of curbside trash.
Even in our own apartment,
we were imposters,
making do with two burners,
dreaming of showers,
waiting for the BBC.
Bare plaster walls resented
our futon, our folding chairs,
our tasteless table lamps.
But the sky was ours,
a low, motionless gray,
its melancholy reflected
in disinterested panes.
At day’s end, we sat together,
before the casement window,
its doors spread open like wings,
our bare feet propped
on a generous sill.
We wanted wine
but had so little money.
We settled for swifts,
shape shifters, their spirals
twisting twilight to night,
known for screaming parties,
able to roost in midair,
mating on the wing.
Grey Brown: I lived in Paris for two years in the early 1990’s and this poem is from that time. Writing poetry has been a part of my life since 1976 when I won an Emerging Voices contest in North Carolina and had my first chance to read. I was hooked. I studied poetry at NYU in the 80’s and loved workshops. When I returned home, I joined the Blacksocks Poetry critique group and have been a member for 39 years! I still love to give readings and that in-person connection is a lot of what continues to drive me. I am currently working on my fourth manuscript. My website is Grey-spiral.com. Facebook: Grey Brown. Instagram: greybrownspiral.