Poetry Annual 1998	O Y S T E R   B O Y   R E V I E W   [ 8 ]
	P O E M   / 1 / 2 /
Debra Kaufman
C L A I R E   O N   L O V E
It's not a falling into, it's a lifting out of, a drifting up, you're filled with fine champagne and see all that's ordinary through a pale gold tint. There's no food but angel cake, mousse, and meringue. Your hair? Cut it short and chic, then shimmy into a dress that's pure frou-frou. Now you feel Parisienne, think Colette, think Truffaut, think Jean-Paul Belmondo. He kisses your fingertips, you breathe his scent, the air is charged wih molecules of zing, voices are music, and the nights zip and swoop by like swallows. ................. Mais alors ................... He smokes, he complains, he has melancholic moods, he leans on you for something you can't give or won't, not here, not now, not him. It's a burdensome thing, love. You stare into the fountain. The water's sluggish brown, clogged with leaves, gum wrappers, pennies. How to get out with some grace is a problem, and it's now, you remember, that the falling begins.
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