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Curves | Karen Braucher

 That was the summer I fell asleep in German
  and woke up in French. I lay down on the earth,
   stared up through a three-dimensional labyrinth
    of dark branches stretching toward sky.
     Curves are so much more caressing than
      straight lines, n’est-ce pas? Who has time
       to look at parabolas? Could I express only
        a parade of diversionary questions? Nein, nein,
         the German inside demanded, Gib mir Antworten!
          I went to a party and tried only to ask questions
           and answer none. I was a spy, intimidating
           to at least two persons. Questions are curves,
          without closure. Could one spend a whole evening
         on a stroll through someone else’s mind? How
        refreshing to encounter unfamiliar corridors.
       No one is throwing up skeet and asking me
      to shoot. The parade massed and snapped
     to attention, goose-stepped away. Replaced by
    tendrils, drifting pine needles. When I awoke, I was
   la belle étrangère, omnipotent in my voluptuous
  listening. I could coax even the waves to speak.

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