Having insufficient French for use in un commissariat de police

Michael D Rose

She pokes an eyebrow over
the khaki pocket-rim, takes
in the sweat-sluiced air of yet
another metro station;
bares the merest folded tip
of photographed, magnetised
life; just enough for finger-
nail’s catch and a thumbnail’s vice.
Perhaps she lets a sliver
of coloured paper show. I
have paused before a map that
reveals too much. She is plucked
skyward, flying into the
world, already opening up,
ready to disappoint.