The voice in my head can be so different than the one that comes
out of my mouth. I think aubergine, but say eggplant, something
like coming back from Paris but not knowing where to begin.
I had intended to look back and put things together, but it's hard
to speak sympathetically about this moment. I was heartbroken

once I heard the news. I regret never having learned another
language. I wish I knew how to read music. The French know
how to make eggplant sound sexier than it really is, like a secret
meeting to share photocopied pages of a banned novel. There are
notes on survival in the margins of any given season, there are bodies

resembling pictures of hostages found on the roadside
of an occupied country. I say disease, but think quiet place
by the river. There's a narrative I love about a woman who goes
outside to shoot crows that disturbed her sleep. It's a form
of surgery by any other name, an exaggerated appearance

through the fog, a mythology of rooftop dreamers. I say
waiting room, but picture Jeu de Paume, a hotel nestled
between branches of the Seine. I don't remember the last time
I told my wife I loved her. A sign at the door asks that we forgive
the appearance of the lobby as it undergoes renovation.



�2007 by Frank Matagrano