Brattle Street Review

By Amanda Wilde

We’re on the edge of the Aegean
I’m under an umbrella made of palm fronds
he’s standing in the sea
I’m watching
he’s skipping rocks.

In the sun it’s 30C
in the wind and water it’s 30F
I wonder who he is
I know his laugh lines are 100
maybe more.

Captivated, clandestine, fantastic
I can’t remember now which of those words are his
and which are mine.

He starts talking about books
which would be fine
except
a fatal flaw
he’s french

His name probably has an accent
he probably eats a cheeseburger with a fork & a knife
that’ll never do.
still,
books.

He offers to drive me home
I laugh
he kisses me
I laugh
we walk
I laugh.

Through waterfalls and white walls
fountains and flowers
blue shutters
stairs
he picks one
tangles it in my hair.

This is not a teasing gesture
he’s french.

An old tree
twinkle lights
greek wine
the island thinks we’re lovers.
why not

He strings together romantic french words
hands them to me by the dozen
I’d like to tell you but
je les aime mieux dans mon esprit.
Romantic french things become
dirty french things,
of course
translates to
making secrets, he says
i laugh.

He hands me a heart shaped rock

naturellement, spontanément, unique en son genre
She’s three.