I hold up a picture of my mother- ma mère.
The students point and struggle to décrites la physiologie.
Elle a les cheveux
bruns courts.
Elle est jeune.
My fingertips grip table edges- hot steam rolls through my
brain
Clouding up judgment.
The question is repeated
And repeated
And I know the goddamn answer, just stop asking-
Quel, quel
Quel âge a-t-elle?
I remind myself that this is no longer high school and
Rage fits are no longer okay
It’s no good having any outburst because help is never
attainable these days.
And so… I can’t be broken. It just isn’t allowed.
Rubbing my forehead I conjure numbers into foreign tongues.
Elle a
quarante-neuf ans…
Fighting to keep it all in tact- I learn to breathe again.
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