Paris
This is no place to fall in love
with the banks of the Seine
smelling of piss and the locals indignant, dismissive.
Angry at the necessity of
“les touristes, les touristes.†Flocking into the city
each summer every day
requesting baguette in broken dialect
staining the scenery with abrasive, guttural consonantsEven after nightfall
under the full European moon with Notre-Dame illuminated and
a four-person band playing by the water
the pulse of a drum reverberating through your bodies
pulling you closer to consolation
than you have been before
there is the interruptionof others. They who sit on the same sloping stone steps
who desire the seduction offered by travel brochures and
who are slightly too drunk
slightly too angry to notice
the river boats drifting by,
their bows reflected upward
in perfect duplication.
~ Pamela S. Mosher
Pamela S. Mosher is native to rural Nova Scotia and has lived in Halifax for several years, initially to complete an undergraduate degree in Literature, but ultimately because she is transfixed by the urban space and vibrant people. Pamela’s poetry has been published by ditch, and Open Heart Forgery. She is attempting small-scale publication in literary journals as well as writing her first novel. She enjoys photography, indulging her botanic impulses, biking around Halifax and teaching herself to play guitar.
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