No Frenchman Danced

It's the thirteenth of July,
Nineteen Ninety-Four; jokingly,
I declare 'it's Bastille Day Eve',
but my belle-maman
looks at me, blankly,
balking in the face
of my bad translation.


My daughter races in circles
in her proper cotton frock.
The oaks in the park have grown lanterns.
The band plays ecstatic accordions
in the lacy, last-century bandstand.

In every arrondissement,
in every departement,
it's time to go to the ball.

Under the waxy croissant moon,
the ladies are shaking their skirts.

'Shall we dance?' asks belle-maman,
and I nod, in happy ascent;
we whirlingly waltz round the square,
the appropriate distance kept
in each other's arms.

My daughter is twirling,
but not in waltz time,
with her best friend Phillimatou.
Invisible ribbons flair in their hands.

One-two-three, one-two-three,
we women waltzing, one-two-three;
daughters and sisters and girlfriends,
laughing, whirl dizzily faster;
one-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three -

no man came to dance,
but no girl was a wallflower;
the nation of women was waltzing,
with women, and girls
were out twirling,
with girls.

What moving charm!
It is so much fun,
and such romance,
to dance, arm in arm,
in the city of lights,
with my lover's
mother.

I dance with the lady downstairs,
with her back tooth of gold, and a black lace dress;
I dance with a girl with gold dreds and white nails,
I dance with a maidemoiselle laced with tattoos.
I dance with my daughter, we clunk heads and see stars.

I know that too, drunk with giddy turning
on my grateful, graceful limbs,
I waltzed right there, in the public square, with the air.


It is the thirteenth of July
Nineteen Ninety-Four,
and no men dance at the ball in the square.
France will kick off in the World Cup soccer.
It's Bastille Day Eve, and no Frenchman dances.