Sea salt on my lips tastes like morning
before Dover
before my shaky footing matched my moral ground
and you tasted like Mercutio
dead on the beach
only a scratch
on a broken wine glass —
top deck
twenty minutes to France.
It’s already April
and Calais feels like Easter
when I drew prophecies of you
alone in a bathtub in Florence
Because I pick French love
cheap and rosy
and weeping
like the Eiffel Tower
rising over Basilique du Sacré-Cœur,
and gypsies and rotten grapes
are all that guide you home.