To France

(In the voice of Mary Wollstonecraft, 1759-1797)

My body holds the memories
of a journey, some of pleasure,
            one moon with its film of
cloud over a pond winking
the pulse of a duck,
then the red red morning of sun shining on flower and weed.

I turn my leg to return home.
Summer crickets, food by a fire,
            a river I know; the harbor
holding a minute of my breath
until I see him.

Real writers would never write in public so
I hide to have a voice he can hear.

(He says I have the best mind and the sorriest body.
It's as if some brilliant goose had found its way
waddling indoors.)