Staying in the Bastille

It was the end of summer,

I hadn’t been thinking of anyone.

Lunch at Les Deux Magots,

cold melon for dessert. 

I couldn’t remember when it last rained 

but I remembered every word 

of the Cocteau Twins’ ‘Heaven or Las Vegas’. 

Walking the Canal Saint-Martin, 

not knowing I was at the edge 

of my illness. At Père-Lachaise

a man called me ‘daughter’ 

before asking for money.

I gave away the ring I’d worn 

since I was nineteen. Yellow gold 

set with a fat pigeon’s-blood ruby. 

Light wobbled in its laser-cut

jelly. If I’d wanted to end my life 

I’d have done it already.