FRENCH MOTHER WITH TORNADO 
SIRENS IN BACKGROUND 

I don’t know why I was such a dog for all of you.

It was misty. From the lookout
I could see the other state from this
state. 

Give me a real dog.

I wasn’t yet a mother who put her things in a trunk
and sailed for three weeks
until I got to the states.

La Seine carried away my paper sack
two small tin dogs
painted red,
And my snack:
jam and toast
drowned in a black tunnel
of dusk-charged air.

It was misty. From the lookout
I could see the other state from this
state:

The Ohio rolled brown and full of tin caps
I couldn’t pluck
and bag. I wait.
I’ve got a clear throat and
no pumice
can mend this.

The world goes by and the world goes by me.

My son’s hat, white and whisked
into the Charles.

The Hudson full of boats
wind swept past
and tipped. We baked,
a sun scouring down like we were dirt.

It’s too far across the county 
for you
to call.
Too far across this state.

The Jardin des Tuileries pond dipped my skirt black.

No thought-of-the-day 
for all the lonely.

I know how George crossed the Delaware
whereas I
to get my points across
have used bridges like
The Tapansee
The Taconic Parkway
Washington Bridge
Kennedy Bridge
Eller Bridge,
wind over my hair.