Cabin Fever

It’s not the barest part of herself that bothers her most.
Rather this changing flesh that seems no longer
her best feature. At the juncture of nerve pain
a ship might balk, refuse the invitation
of an open span, water ultramarine, bridge raised
so the sail can safely travel through. What lies beneath
the desire to leave one’s home? Linens folded,
dishes washed and put away. Children raised and gone.
It’s not the lack of trauma when trauma ruled the roost
for so long. What chafes at her is Paris. The Paris
that was then, not the one besieged. Ateliers, shops,
bookstores—the little man who saved her from Moroccans
when she ducked in. The train always waiting to take her back
to a place where the veal would be seasoned
by an uncle, cooked in pure butter just until. There
the mussels waiting on a white table cloth in blue shells
for her reluctance, and the usual coaxing,
followed by a hard swallow and more Beaujolais.
The colorless aunt who somehow owned this uncle.
The drama of their child being closeted again to scream
its head off. No one to rescue and nothing to be done.
***