From Persephone in Hell, VI by Rita Dove, from Mother Love

After the wind, this air

imploded down my throat,

a hot, rank syrup swirled with smoke

from a hundred cigarettes.

Soft chatter roaring. French nothings.

I don’t belong here.

She doesn’t belong, that’s certain.
Leather skirt’s slipped
a bit: sweet. No gloves? American,
because she wears black badly.
I’d like to see her in chartreuse,
walking around like a living
after-dinner drink.

He inclines his head, rather massive,

like a cynical parrot. Almost a smile.

"Puis-je vous offrir mes servies?"

Sotto voice, his inquiry

curls down to lick my hand.

Standard nicety, probably,

but my French could not stand up

to meet it.

"Or myself, if you are looking."
I whisper this. I’m sure she doesn’t understand.

"Pardon me?"

"Excuse, I thought you were French.
You are looking for someone?"

"Yes. I’m….sure he’s here somewhere."

Here you are. "

I hope he won’t let himself
be found too soon. A drink?"

He’s gone and back, as easily as smoke,

in each hand a slim glass

alive with a brilliant lime.

"What time is it?"

she blurts,
shrinking from the glass.
"A minuit. Midnight.
The zero hour,
you call it?"

Again the dark smile.

"Some call it that."

"Chartreuse," I say, holding out a glass,
"is a tint not to be found au naturel
in all of France, except in bottles
and certain days at the Cote d’Azur
when sun performs on ocean what
we call un mirage, a--"

"trick of light." I take the glass,

lift it to meet his.

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