Paris – I am with Hella and Joey in Giovanni’s Room
it’s past midnight,
not far from the Musée d’Orsay,
beside me he snores like a small engine.
Loud, he sputters, my man wakes to adjust his pillow.
I turn on my side and continue through Baldwin’s voracious living.
He writes fingertip to skin electric.
And so I walk Paris until
one Sunday, they tried to teach me the number was 10.
Ten Commandments
─their ten truths not mine.
Be good. Go to heaven.
Be bad. Go to hell.
I mean, really, go to hell.
Last week a man found 12 at Montmartre.
Twelve the number of steps to truth.
Came to believe
I am powerless
Life is unmanageable
When he told me that,
I said it all leads to four I think.
The number 4 tumbles out of my mouth.
How sweet the sound
Maybe Buddha found those four words under the Bodhi tree.
I laughed because I dreamed he left them for me in a Dunkin Donuts bag.
Four noble truths with a glazed stick.
To suffer not.
Yeah, but I still suffer some.
I bet you do, too.
But then I see myself by the Ile de la Cité and it is Paris I walk.
I can’t hear a prayer but there are bells.
Our Lady, Notre Dame, she is on fire.
Oh, dawn has arrived fast after a fitful sleep.
not far from the Musée d’Orsay,
beside me he snores like a small engine.
Loud, he sputters, my man wakes to adjust his pillow.
I turn on my side and continue through Baldwin’s voracious living.
He writes fingertip to skin electric.
And so I walk Paris until
one Sunday, they tried to teach me the number was 10.
Ten Commandments
─their ten truths not mine.
Be good. Go to heaven.
Be bad. Go to hell.
I mean, really, go to hell.
Last week a man found 12 at Montmartre.
Twelve the number of steps to truth.
Came to believe
I am powerless
Life is unmanageable
When he told me that,
I said it all leads to four I think.
The number 4 tumbles out of my mouth.
How sweet the sound
Maybe Buddha found those four words under the Bodhi tree.
I laughed because I dreamed he left them for me in a Dunkin Donuts bag.
Four noble truths with a glazed stick.
To suffer not.
Yeah, but I still suffer some.
I bet you do, too.
But then I see myself by the Ile de la Cité and it is Paris I walk.
I can’t hear a prayer but there are bells.
Our Lady, Notre Dame, she is on fire.
Oh, dawn has arrived fast after a fitful sleep.
Jan / Feb 2024
Carol Young is a Chinese American writer, born in San Antonio, Texas. She is an MFA candidate at Pacific University and an Anaphora Arts fellow. Carol's poems may be found in West Trestle Review and SWWIM. Her short story “Just Say It” was published in The New York Times (Tiny Love Stories 2021). She also works in the music business including the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival.
Art: Donna Morello, Collage