by Eileen H., 17
for my sister
until it was raining & we pressed
our mouths to the glass tanks
in the aquarium & started kissing the dogfish
with our fists until they opened their throats
as wide as ours & sang,
& in the apartment room with no AC
we listened to the song that goes I love
Paris in the rain until our backs found
the bamboo covering, the stale wooden
bed that gave us nightmares. I like to think
of time as Monet’s Water Lilies—
circuitous, continuous, unending white circle
in which you can’t tell if you’re looking
at paint splotch or art. & if we were Impressionist
landscapes I might be a green brush stroke
& you might be purple, blue, or the chair
in a Van Gogh painting. & I remember,
when we did visit Trocadero, at midnight,
a man missing three front teeth took
a photo of us when we weren’t looking.
On a cheap, disposable camera.
I’ve never seen that photo but
I’ve seen it in dreams—the city
holding us over with its light, us watching
over the Seine. It’s so blurry that in it,
I can’t tell if we’re smiling or dancing.
Holmdel, New Jersey
Bridge Ink 