Poem by Matthew Gellman 

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ISABELLE, 1968

 My brother fried an entire carton
of eggs while you quietly 

came inside me. All that remained
after you finished: blood

on your fingers, blood on the floor.
Outside, the soldiers

were claiming Paris. Their helmets gleamed
like legions of moons. I didn't know

why my brother was crying. I
was trying to find my body.

The rest of that summer was almost gentle, 
like a child sleeping through

a storm, like the three of us lying
in the bathtub, nebulous, 

widening, adrift.

after Bernardo Bertolucci’s “The Dreamers” 

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