Three Poems
  APRIL, PARIS     Nothing would be less shall we call it what it is, a cliché than April in Paris. But this poem got started with some thing I don’t think I could do but it reminded me of Aprils and then three magazines came with Paris on the cover. Sometimes I’m amazed at all the places I’m not, lets say Paris since actually it’s only March but in the magazines they are at outdoor cafes which must be quite chilly now. And I forgot the cigarette smoke, until I see many in the photographs are holding what I’m sure isn’t a pen. I wondered how they can always be eating, biting and licking something sweet and still have the most gorgeous bodies. I wonder too how my friend, once an actress, so maybe that’s a clue, could dress up in scanty, naughty, as she puts it clothes for her husband while I am sitting here in baggy jeans and torn sweatshirts. I’m wondering if it’s because he’s lost his job and she is trying to cheer him up. I began thinking of Paris when she described the umbrella she decorated with drops of rain, how she just wore a garter belt under it. I thought of tear shaped drops of rain I made for the Junior Prom’s April in Paris, long before I felt the wind thru my hair on Pont Neuf. It’s there in the photograph which I hope is more original than the idea of the photograph because I plan to use it on my next book. I wish I could feel what she must, dolled up, trying to soothe this man and getting off on it. As for me, only imagining you, the one with fingers on me, holding me on the page of a book could make me as excited  
    LEMON WIND   all day nobody wanted to talk the sleeping bags were still wet from the storm in Cholla Vista Nothing went right. But later the wood we burned had a sweet unfamiliar smell and all night we could taste lemons in the wind  
  IN SPITE OF HIS DANGLING PRONOUN   He was really her favorite student, dark and just back from the army with hot olive eyes, telling her of bars and the first time he got a piece of ass in Greece or was it Italy and drunk on some strange wine and she thought in spite of his dangling pronoun (being twenty four and never screwed but in her soft nougat thighs) that he would be a lovely experience. So she shaved her legs up high and when he came talking of foot notes she locked him tight in her snug black file cabinet where she fed him twice a day and hardly anyone noticed how they lived among bluebooks in the windowless office rarely coming up for sun or the change in his pronoun. Or the rusty creaking chair or that many years later they were still going to town in novels she never had time to finish
 
Lyn Lifshin has published over 140 books and chapbooks and edited three anthologies of women’s writing including Tangled Vines that stayed in print 20 years.She has given readings and workshops around the country and has had fellowships to Yaddo, Millay Colony and MacDowell colony. She is the recipient of many awards including Bread Loaf scholarships, The Kerouac Prize and a New York State Caps Caps grant etc. Her Website is www.lynlifshin.com