Poem by Matthew Gellman
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,
after Bernardo Bertolucci’s “The Dreamers”