Steps to Montmartre

The lights curve up like a dancer’s arm.

“I will follow you to the top,” he says.

“But what’s at the top that cannot be found here?”

“Dali’s moustache . . . Van Gogh’s ear . . . Picasso’s Blue Period. Modernity, my love.”

“But I am already modern.”

“Come anyway! Be inspired.”

“But these heels.”

“I will have to carry you then.”

I laugh into his mouth, and lift my leg to ensnare him. He fumbles for my garter, and the soft skin slipped to him by the Paris moon.

“We’ll never make it,” I sigh.

But those blue hands of his are too busy to care.

“Now tell me about the Sacré Couer . . .” I murmur.

He smiles, his moustache lifting.

“The Sacred Heart.”

I press the space above his heart.

“Come,” I whisper into his ear.

“Be inspired.”

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