She was traveling 100 miles an hour
in her green sweater and grey skirt.
The gusty leaves swirled in three
directions around her Chanel pumps.

I was on the wagon and we bought
bushels of oranges and blocks of cheese:
a wedge of port-salut, 199 francs of géromé,
and a square of pont-l’évèque.

That spring, we rode bicycles, her skirt blew
up and down; we swam shaking with cold
in the unheated Sorbonne pool.

Under sheets and blankets, we held hands.
The unbroken moon cast scrolls and rosettes
over our sleeping forms. The radio on all night.

1939, it was the last year a Jew could get
a table at La Flore. 13 years after the war
I could not learn one more scrap about her.




Image by Henrik Berger Jørgensen

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