Poetry - Issue 11 | January 2011
Manifest
by Lisa
Manifest
Mornings here, I put my French on: underthings, white blouse, a tight skirt.
I dress letter by letter, I wear my accent comme ci.
To the fleuriste, I am charming
with my child-language-syntax,
the way I knock over with my draped elbows
glass shelves and vases, shatter
imperfect verbs.
Astonishingly, I know the word jonquille;
with azaliée, I get lucky.
Having said my piece, I clutch a madness of daffodils,
a profundity of azaleas. The bouquet rustles
and down the wet stairs, my shoes and skirt
click and swish. On the Metro
everyone is silent.
About the author
Lisa Allen Ortiz has been shot at on the mountains of Peru and held by INTERPOL on suspicion of drug smuggling in Columbia, but all the good times have been in Paris. Her work has appeared on Verse Daily or in the Comstock Review, Crab Creek Review, Zyzzyva and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Turns Out, is forthcoming from Main Street Rag Press (2011).