Misinterpretation

You traveled from train

near thread-like alleys

that brought us

hand in hand

into churches

that smelled of

open-eyed trout.

It wasn't our country

but words didn't

keeps us out

of streets

and beats of a

Congolese whisper throw us into

the blackout of day.

I walk in moth-light 

listening to you

speak French

better 

than me, 

under hanging fishnets

that droop like

weeping willows.

We drink red beer

that foams

seduces

me into sheets of rain

under apartments

owned by French lovers

who toast Savignon Blanc

when the sun sets.

Butterflies 

are vacant

in corner dust

under a backpack

that holds your past.

Only your slang is familar

but I'll never

be bi-lingual

beneath the

Eiffel Tower

or the bend of your arms that tie me

into your own translation.

"Branque"

"Baiser"

"Bourrer"

"Deconner"

It's jargon,

street talk

which builds

in clouds

around fish sellers

and runway models gowned

in grey leather

and smoke.

They know the sounds

that Je ne comprends pas

but which you use to order me

cappuccino

in a country that will never be ours.