Lili au Rivoli
She holds faint half tones, soft tides of inner seas.
Picture her hidden steps, three button pearls,
arch clipped, kid white, a cursive calf slips.
Lips, chin, slim line of bud and bough, pure
as cherry blossom in some far off Kyoto garden.
He touched her hand, the pale peony shifting
of her hip, even this Boulevard flowers skin,
cigars, dark serge, his lingering Guerlain that
woos her now, as knowing as the Seine. Follow.
Her eyes are smooth as challis, and these trees
hold liquid light as if all worlds have turned to gold.
She will not look, her chapeau shadows, leads, bares
a naked nape, now blood-blushed roses bloom.
Mary Gilonne is a translator, living in France near Aix-en-Provence for many years, but originally from Devon U.K. She has won the Wenlock Poetry Prize, been shortlisted for the Bridport and Elbow Room Prizes, commended in the Prole, Buzzwords, Teignmouth and Caterpillar Prizes. Her work has appeared in Antiphon, Clear Poetry, Spontaneity, Smeuse, The Curlew, Grievous Angel, Snakeskin, Unbroken Magazine, Emma Press among others, and in several anthologies.
The Ekphrastic Review
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