Saturday, December 24, 2016

She Told Me Once Her Name Is Gigi

I don’t know where she got it,
but she says it with enough ooh la la
to lead me to believe she was weaned
on strong coffee and croissant,

and, even though she’s walker-old,
she smiles during her afternoon strolls
as if remembering how easy a thing
the inspiration of breathy French exclamations
used to be. We exchange pleasantries and pass

in the opposite direction. She tells me again
how happy she is to “still be here on Planet Earth.”
I know this is her way of saying she’s glad
she hasn’t died yet and gone to heaven,

but her wording makes me wish
that Wilford Brimley and Don Ameche
would suddenly jitterbug by to whisk her away
for a dip in an alien-cocoon-steeped pool
as they await the Mother Ship and immortality.

Of course, it never happens. Another thing
that never happens is me turning around,
walking with her awhile, asking her
how she got her name.

First appeared in The Homestead Review - Fall 2016

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