Back to Issue Three.

18 in Paris



Along the Seine the boys
dance like cockerels 

& croon hymns to the galaxies 
behind Orion’s 

belt.  They drum 
the night soul 

out of its pink pink 
shell & block 

all seventeen bridges 
this race of androids 

can’t stop crossing. 
The boys call to me 

in French. I don’t speak 
French. I have fallen from the sky 

& they want to sew me 
a dress of clouds.  

They know I hear 
the singing.  

My mother appears, a lifesaver 
hurtling toward a girl being pleasured 

by a treacherous swim.  The boys 
laugh, comfortable birds 

out of the reach 
of any death. 

The laughter 
like rotting meat.



Elizabeth Maria Falcón graduated from the University of Arizona with an MFA in poetry. She is a teaching artist, makes sourdough bread, and loves strategy games.