3 poems by Ron Riekki

The Blue Hour


for Amélie

After dusk, in the apartment,
we whisper that the worst thing
about the men in France
is the sleeping around.
It’s a Latin country,
so people like to play.
In the yellow of the room,
we whisper that the best thing
about the men in France
is that they are romantic.
They do nice things.
They bring you things.
They take you to Brittany
or the south of France,
the Basque Coast,
which is on the west part
on the sea where there’s ocean
and landscape and it’s less packed.
Then we talk about Jack the Ripper
or, as we call him,
Jack L’eventeur, which means
“to open up the belly.”
We talk about being pregnant
and then about serial killers
and none of us can remember
any of their names.
We ask each other if we have forgotten
any ex-boyfriend’s names.
We have. We haven’t.

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