Daniel Coudriet




Some girls are a parade
I can still remember.
They're selling faces
on Main St, I can breathe
their windows.
My son a glimmer
a noise downstairs
from the cork forest.
Wasn't it always mornings
walking past looking
for language. I have
become the supermarket.
Their picture machine
outside. When a son
cannot continue work
of his father. When
the sleep that holds us
our ceilings. The pencil-
scrawled figures. The river
through the bar downstairs
to the street. This makes
a neighborhood. We'd write
a song if we were watching
the assembled crowd
from a helicopter on TV.
Let me sing it to you.



A country that isn't a childnight
sky with holes punched out,
bliss, it is near to being painted over.
You are an electric apple.
My eyebrows do things I cannot
back up. I guess I should ask you
for a cardboard guitar.
So many lines about breathing
& spitting & sitting in kitchens.
So much broken glass.
Can wind cook food?
Entire days sending the same face
back to each other.
Sightlines of cheekbones.
How we dressed,
how we gave our ideas.
Was I supposed to go to the city?
Everything that is beautiful
is an accident. Skygone.
The rain involved with regretting
nothing. Were we supposed to
find each other there?
If I could go all of the places
the pants have been located.
Do we live to be forgotten teenagers?
Something about the colors
I've walked through, something
about waking up with silent faces.
I want to raise a family here,
offstage among these rafters.
I want to name something.




I felt something warm on my foot.
I blamed you, but it was probably me
when I tossed the bread into the sauce.
I think our cat is a sociologist.
Don't make me laugh. I might
drool. Remember when I drooled
over my fries. The waitress.
They weren't even my fries.
They were our fries.





"Amor estofado" gets its title from an intentional mishearing of the lyrics to Ana Moura's song "Amor afoito." The poem itself doesn't really relate to that song or to Ana Moura's work, although I would highly recommend both [here]. The first line plays with the similarities between the French for "some girls" and the Spanish for "parade." The end of the poem tips its hat to Joni Mitchell's method of composition for her song "Woodstock."

My son named our ficus tree "Sven."

"Love Poem" happened in Terminal de Ómnibus Mariano Moreno in Rosario, Argentina.