If I were French

By Kelly Grace Thomas


The French never had a word for weekend. So they borrowed from us.  

Maybe in a country so driven by passion, it seems gauche to distinguish

service from sanctuary.

The French never apologize for their stinky cheeses, big noses, or third glass of wine.

They don't stutter apologies in accents as thick as rivers of lavender honey.

Beauty is both confidence and culture,

something Americans have spent lifetimes trying to purchase.

My whole life I have always wanted to be French.

To smoke and argue and break empty picture frames that used to house photos of lovers

I thought would stay.

Maybe if I were French elegance wouldn’t be a question mark 

and I wouldn’t need excuse or occasion

for black lace or red lipstick.

I would kiss the morning newspaper and tell the world to read my lips, 

to listen up, cause it's gonna be big, 

but only if I were French.