Call me jolie fleur
each of the times we
speak between
three-month intervals,
you assign me
saccharine French
endearing appellations
rich enough to
fill the space in
which we never really
knew each other.
Casual conversation
spanning continents—
spanning consciousness—
careful memories of
balmy terrace evenings,
music under a
starry expanse,
languid language exchange,
wary affection,
sucking the cigarettes
you rolled between your
tiny rosebud fingers.
That night we all rallied
to go out in Krakow,
you beheld me
wide-eyed, we waxed
poetic about
magic hour spells
elapsed in our mutual
Italy. We slipped out
just the two of us.
I should have kissed you
in the Polish snowstorm.
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Meghan O’Brien is a writer, artist, and linguaphile based in New York. Her poems—recurrently comprising themes of travel, nature, and the sublime—have appeared in Chronogram and Stonesthrow Review, among others.
