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Stuart Dischell
The Ballad of St. Sulpice

I tripped in the street near St. Sulpice
Just beyond the cafe in the dark.
A woman rushed to help me up.
“Ca va, ca va,” I said, then “I’m ok.”

Having caught myself on my hands,
I jumped right up and showed them
To her like an old fashioned
American second baseman: no broken

Bones, only the deep impressions
Of the tiny stones in the sidewalk.
She looked at my palms with the light
Of her phone, the planetary circles

Impressed upon my pads above
The creased valleys as I outstretched
My fingers toward her. Across the street,
Pigeons rose above the dizzying towers.

She wound her fingers with my own,
Kissed both my palms and we climbed
Seven flights to her chambre de bonne—
Having hit my head on the ancient stones?

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