I'm not French.
Well, my last name is
and my parents tell me that my dad's
great
great
great
great
great
great
grandparents were
But I'm not French
I'm an American schoolgirl
I live in a rich town
where cottages cost millions
and girls wear maroon mini skirts
So I'm not French
not really
But when I'm standing
in a cool quiet museum
staring Claude Monet's painting called Dance at Bougival
I find myself there
in the old Paris
the smell of cloves swirling around me
in a dance of spices
small cafés lining the street
where people sit reading the news and languidly socializing
a street actor
reciting Shakespeare for a sol
maybe it's just a dream
it probably is
But I can feel France
in my bones
the silent t's
how they eat pizza with forks
swans that pedal through the Seine
a small corner grocery store
the smell of the metro at night
saying nothing but "merci"
and hoping they don't know you're not French
because I'm not
when people ask where I'm from
I say
California
San Francisco
Mill Valley
Homestead
Park Way
but not France
But when I'm sitting in Spanish class
I stare at the poster of the Arc de Triomphe
and wish that I was there too.
And my heart and my head yearn for the
French rain
French bicycles
French cough drops
French bug spray
French clocks
French police sirens—
So maybe I am French
just a bit