“I hate the light” the desk clerk growls at six am,
jerked awake
by the thud of the elevator—
dreading we might ask for his help
with luggage, to turn on the light, hail a taxi,
or worse . . .
attempt Bonjour.
It’d been raining for eight months
and Paris in September 2001
had settled into
a soothing, gray ennui.
We approach his desk to pay the bill.
He repeats, “I hate the light.”
I flip the light switch ON. He looks stung.
I feel almost sympathetic,
for the light is icy, not at all buttery.
There are no croissants, no demitasse cups,
no aroma of coffee, no coffee.
He hates the light. I understand. He hates the light.
Why illuminate?
When he is French and not beautiful.
When we are American and not beautiful.
We are mere disturbances to the field,
to the search—for the things one really needs.
Particular certainties:
Truth. Liberty. Beauty. Enlightenment.
Breakfast.
We yawn, all so tired of each other,
overcome by the pallor
cast by no
sun coffee Bonjour
reason to linger thing to love
or to butter.
Note on poem: mere disturbance to the field is borrowed from Margaret Gibson’s poem “After Surgery”
Photograph by Alison Deland Scott
Smoky Quartz 