Glass: A Journal of Poetry Volume Three Issue One     

Brianna Noll

Because Audrey Hepburn Movie Marathons Give Me Ideas

Of course Paris is romantic, with its angles,
its air threaded with smoke,
but, self-conscious of my indelicate
American r’s, I could never enjoy it.

Unless a group of musicians
followed us around,
à la Love in the Afternoon.
One must play the accordion
and wear a red beret.

The others could choose their instruments
as long as they knew La Vie en Rose.
They’d accompany us everywhere—
it’d be wonderfully cinematic.

They could join us at the Opera,
interrupt Lohengrin when it gets schmaltzy—
Wagner always made you want to dive
off the balcony into the orchestra.

When you take me home,
our ragtag quartet would serenade us
to bed. You’d request something from Carmen
because Bizet was French,

and you’d lure me to bed like a toreador
in red satin sheets. We’d keep it rough,
in case the musicians were watching,
and as you spank me I’ll growl,

my American r’s keen and sharp
against my teeth, against your skin.