A Poem for a Thursday #148

Mary Karr is an American poet and memoirist. Her memoir, The Liar’s Club, was a bestseller for over a year and was named one of the year’s best books. Karr has published five volumes of poetry and has won many prizes. Her poetry is frequently described as unsentimental and unsparing and is sometimes autobiographical.

The dream we had was Paris, and it was the sweetest lie
I ever heard. Grace, you said, and there were swans
feeding on bread we tossed from a taxi window. Lilac,
and from the stirrup of your hands, I balanced to tear off
branches. Angel, and we slung cameras around our necks
like tourists in heaven who can only love
from a distance. This is a snapshot of you
taking a snapshot of me taking a snapshot.
This is Minneapolis, where we breathe snow
in the dark bubble of the car,
where all that remains of Lilac
is the fear of falling,
which is the first truth.

Last night I fell asleep with my face on the typewriter.
The keys marked my cheek.
So at dawn I stood at the mirror
reading myself like a page of braille.
I don't know who you are or how we once dreamt
of Paris. I watched the perfume-maker squash
a thousand blossoms into a tiny vial. I imagine
your coins still plunk on his glass counter: Grace, Lilac,
Angel, we paid dearly. I rushed at swans with arms wide
until they rose in one graceful heap,
like the handkerchief I lift as you drive away,
a snowflake I dot behind my ear.
This is a snapshot washed black by the airport x-ray.
It waves goodby.

The Last Paris Poem
Mary Karr