You’re hesitant
to check
the bill of fare, note de frais
it says
in padded vinyl, recalling
as a girl
you’d ordered consommé,
after your parents
let you pick
from the menu en Française,
anything
that you wanted,
thinking it sounded cool,
never catching the
smirk
from the maître d’,
that you were left
to learn your lesson,
slurping broth
and fallen tears,
eyeing your siblings
wolf le hamburger
et les frites, with a slice of
à la mode,
your parents, their
crème brûlée,
while you chose
to play it safe
and ordered nothing
for le dessert,
your mother’s rien,
s’il vous plait,
delivered with an air
of punishment,
for your pouting
and jealous gaze,
for your failure
with a language
they had loved,
and you plotted
a future meal
when you were older,
worked your way to
C in fifth-grade French,
when you gleaned
a dozen mollusks
from the garden,
placed them
on your parents’
gilded plates,
that escargots
would surely
pay them back,
that vengeance
is the same in either
tongue,
served best
when il fait froid,
will take
its sweetest time
to come to pass,
like a snail that needs
forever
to move a mile,
careful not to crack
its spiral shell,
like a chicken
and its egg ,
un oeuf
et un poulet.
Andreas Gripp
October 30, 2023
RF Image
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