When Edith sings
my mind conjures up
grainy, sepia-toned
black and white photographs
of Paris in the forties.

Her voice embodies that
tinkling piano that everyone hears
in a neighbouring apartment, but
never our own.

When Edith sings I hear her say (in French),
“At first there was no applause, and
then the house came down.”

When Edith sings
I smell bread baking. And cappucino,
seated at a sidewalk cafe,
watching skirts swish by as the
cloud infested skies open up.

You can have her smoky eyes,
but I want her red, red mouth.