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Sophie Mayer

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Miss Tinguette

  "A kiss can be a comma, a question mark, or an exclamation mark."
 
These are my legs, these my lips:
grace is punctuation. Not a question
you would ever think to ask, a word
none seek to define. I took his name
for me, lightly, a Parisian baise.  Air or
cheek. Yes, I know its double meaning,
wear rouge and feathers and fantails
and not much else. You mutter.

  " 'Innocent Eyes' on my tongue became 'Innocent Asses.' "
 
Au clair de la lune: New York aglow
with my leaving. From the boat, it is
a giant cabaret, buildings shimmying
and waltzing. Oh, for stockings as fine
as night air. For silence, between my eye
and the camera. For the slippery moment of yes,
oui, oeil, eyes, asses. Assets. Nothing
innocent plays about my lips.
 
  "I say 'Come closer' and draw them to me."
 
For my legs, 500,000 francs. For my lovers,
kings and princes, singers and audiences and
no-one. Jeanne Bourgeois. I told no-one. Silent
in film after film, all that remains of me now
is nothing. A few photographs, vinyl whisperings,
a feather. Unmissed if unmistakable. Spoken for,
so to speak, by a chorus of those I thought
I'd left behind. Those who hold my train.

Page(s) 70

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