Trouver Son Chemin

Feu? asks the young man,
pointing at his cigarette.
Here in the dark I’m not sure it’s my stop –

Chaville, Rive Droit, toward Versailles
and feu, feu, my mind gropes
until I find matches in my bag.
Merci. He cups flame to his face
and slouches down the street
I finally recognize as mine.

I’m often a little confused here.
Running in the Parc de Fausses Reposes,
I stick to the paths, count my turns,
and still get hopelessly lost. Perdu
until I find L’Eglise Sainte Bernadette,

on the parc’s periphery, so odd
in this land of cathedrals
and les grands vitrails –
small windows colored
like willow, sky, daffodil.

I think of Bernadette,
my aunt, not the saint.
Well, maybe the saint too,
a simple girl who felt unworthy,
though it was she

who saw the Virgin.
Aunt Bern, not one for visions,
escaped the convent. Sleek-haired,
Franco-American flapper, smart enough
for an office job, she raised five kids,

managed a hard husband,
and would have liked this squat
church where I sit for a long time
amid the tang of polished pew
and incense. Afterwards, I easily find
Rue de Bon Chance                                 

and my borrowed condo – up the hill
from the train I hear each night
from Paris, from Versailles.

I sit on the balcony
with a last glass of Muscadet,
thinking of Bernadette,
her mother, and all her tough
sisters. Bastille Eve and

fireworks splash the stars.
On the terrace below,
neighbors’ faces lit
by glowing cigarettes,

their language, liquid
and spirited, same
as my grandmother’s,
same as my aunts’.