Free Write 1, Week 11

Vive La France

I'd like to morph into a French girl.
French women release 20 percent
of their income, like ravens, on lingerie.
Their sums spin silver into lacy straps,
to silken camisoles shaded with seduction.
For French women, flirting is oral
prostitution, the good kind. It is the finest art,
and great work requires investments. They sell
the playful conversations that men want
with the shaping figurines that women need.

French women are the country's Degas,

the continental Ghiberti's, the world's 

Wordsworth--they know movement 

in flecked hips, they know the shape 

and outline of the romances they execute.

If I was a golden French woman, my lips

would be fleshy raspberries, swollen, leaking

the musky fragrance of my fantasies,

whispering destined jargon deciphered only

through touch--like brail, I'd teach you how 

to see through my Chanel skirts, right up

until you see my zebra-print V-kini, my

bubblegum boylegs, my forbidden granny

panties, and as you yank them with the enamel

of your teeth I'd whisper French words,

whisper les femme françaises, until the mysteries

of our simmering desire can transform,
until the sweetness of our French kisses list

and become another obligation, another job,

another long and teasing chore.