Mark Alan Williams
Paris
Pigalle, pale edifice of red-lipped
geraniums shriveling at windows.
Blue and thin as a trash bag, the cold
hurrying us south to St. Michel.
Stickered champagne from a weary pharmacy,
klieg lights of the Latin Quarter,
a bird landing again and again
on hotel sheets, herringbone of blood.
We leave the windows open all night
to be sure the bird gets out alive
which felt like love, no one described it
differently until much, much later.
Mark Alan Williams runs a construction company based in Austin, Texas. A graduate of NYU's MFA program, his work has recently appeared in Narrative and the New Ohio Review.
Return to May 2020 Edition
Pigalle, pale edifice of red-lipped
geraniums shriveling at windows.
Blue and thin as a trash bag, the cold
hurrying us south to St. Michel.
Stickered champagne from a weary pharmacy,
klieg lights of the Latin Quarter,
a bird landing again and again
on hotel sheets, herringbone of blood.
We leave the windows open all night
to be sure the bird gets out alive
which felt like love, no one described it
differently until much, much later.
Mark Alan Williams runs a construction company based in Austin, Texas. A graduate of NYU's MFA program, his work has recently appeared in Narrative and the New Ohio Review.
Return to May 2020 Edition