She always hated the name Francine;
never understood why momma thought
the name would give her the grace
God forgot to gift her. Momma always said
her face was too plain; there was no beauty
to be felt beneath fingertips.
No amount of blue ever shaded her eyes
enough to hide the pain. Bruises ran
more than skin-deep; and turned her into
a poet. Francine found beautiful
in the midst of woven words that flowed
from the depth of a lonely soul. Freedom
flowed from her fingertips, and she knew
momma never knew beautiful at all.
Francine fell in love for the first time with
an artist. He painted away the flaws
she knew so well. They sceduled sessions of
brushstrokes and sex on silk sheets;
where the aftermath always left her icy cold.
Along the way she fell in love with poets,
distinguished gents, and even a cashier
from the vintage store on Main.
Wrote of the way a poet lives and breathes
softness; even in fevered degrees of flesh.
The funny way a gent becomes less
distinguished when undressed and unable
to perform. How vulnerable young boys
are when touched for the very first time.
She changed lovers often to inspire
her nagging muse. Francine moved to Paris
in search of something more.
I wish that I had more than this dusty, old
journal. Although she is alive within its pages.
Every piece of who she was
is found between the lines. Where she hid
in the comfort of pretty penmanship,
and dreams of a French man
who would wash her ugly away
with a dance in Paris rain.
Gold trophy winner
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