The saxophone

Sometimes I take up that old

deck of cards, snapshots saved

from the discourse of the day:

I remember the saxophone

coming up to greet the lovers

where they perched smoking

in a window over

the Place d'Armes

one summer night

after dinner

when spirits cavorted and I held

my own among them across the table,

a hand proffered, and together

we climbed the spiral staircase

to the white apartment. I remember

his name for me, mon chaton,

feline window-dweller serenaded by

the long lone song and pooled black eyes,

a thing I took out of time and life and

planted in words, a grace that rose

only to fall, down to the bus stop

at the edge of the city, where I stood

alone in the freezing cold, assessing the

freezing cold in my gut, a torn-up

little bird I tried to bring inside,

not to bring to life, but to bury,

with ceremony, a tiny little grave.

Reviews

[John Alexander McFadyen]

Such pathos is impossible but you inject the French and indeed je ne sais quai as you reflect on how you could be so naive. This is brittle, life poetry, emotional words in emotional phrases that leave the reader in no doubt that as the protagonist struggles with identity and confidence others take liberties, Vive la révolution!