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When I Am French
by Tish Valles

Sometimes I imagine I am French.
I picture myself in an a pied-a-tere
overlooking le jardin, sipping cafe au lait.
My voice lowers an octave, suddenly
sophisticated, spoken from luscious lips
that pucker and pout. I have a mole
on my face, a beautiful imperfection
somewhere close to my left eye.
My brows, always perfect, arch with
more conviction and my deep brown
eyes will be equal parts sadness and sass.
I am always gliding, when I am French
I gain grace and gait. Accordion
music trails wherever I go.


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