vicki Bryant.

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Ah, Merci

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Quell heure est il? She asked.

And as a three time loser at French

I could only point to a clock tower,

but she was pleased.

Ah, merci. Merci.



Ah, merci! to stand in the dark

on a balmy September night in the City of Light

waiting for he who'd asked the same question

and gotten my English reply,

"I don't know."



Ah, merci.

He too was pleased,

but couldn't or wouldn't believe

Quell heure est il was all I knew of French

as I stood in line for a ticket to a play

I couldn't possibly understand but wouldn't

miss though I hadn't slept since leaving Vienna.



Now, I too watched the tower

anticipation a long minute

until he crossed the street.

Ah, merci.



Through the streets we walked,

and superstitious, I skirted every grate.

"In Paris you don't need to worry what's

under your feet, " he said,

"but what's poured from the windows."

Words two blocks later I learned to believe:

shoulders and hair wet

with what I hoped was water.

Ah, merci.



In Montmartre we entered a brightly lit Bistro

and watched crusty old men play cards.

"Deux Demis" he ordered, and ordered again

as we spoke of Goethe's Faust and fresh from playing

Gretchen in an ally in D.C.

I was pleased.

Ah, Merci.



Later, missing the last Metro

we walked through a, now, mythical night

that I unwrap like a rich ruby when I cannot sleep

to ease the pain of loneliness and a harried life.

Ah, merci.



Just before the sun began to cast shadows

of the archaic buildings onto the deserted street,

we ascended the stairs to his room

which had only bed, desk, sink.

He turned on the radio, and we danced slowly

intoxicated and at ease.

Ah, merci.



He unbuttoned my shirt and slipped it from my

shoulders, pulled off his own.

We danced my bare breasts against his equally bare chest

and moved slowly to the single bed.

He lay me down, pulled off my skirt and shoes.

Thin, then, the bones of my hips protruded.

He kissed them and ran his tongue up my belly,

kissed my breasts, nipples rising to meet his lips.

He moved gently over me until I whispered

Ah, merci and then fell asleep.



At the train station, he pushed back my red hair

and kissed me good-bye.



I boarded the train with that rich ruby night

wrapped in the tissue of my soul.

Watching him wave as I sat on the train,

a teary-eyed Gretchen knowing

"We too would meet again

but never in the dance."

Ah, merci, merci.

poem by Vicki Gates Bryant (4 a.m. March 7,1995)

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