From the Firefly Galaxy

The Bateaux Mouches glides along the river
with us, its passengers (mostly tourists
from around the world) on the upper deck.

A pre-recorded voice is our guide
for the magnificent sites we go past,
seemingly timed with the length of the hull:

when the bow drifts by Notre Dame cathedral,
it explains the building’s importance in French,
then quickly moves through various tongues 

(English, Italian, Spanish, German)
until those at the stern hear its discourse
on Parisian history in Chinese.

My basic comprehension of a few
languages is enough to determine
they are not all saying the same thing

the script being tailored, I guess, to the
sensitivities of different cultures.
The Louvre, a little farther downstream, 

is described to some as a treasure trove 
of art, displayed for public view inside 
the former palace of exalted kings, 

while to others the museum is called
a repository for the spoils of war,
collected over many centuries –

a result of conquest by rulers
whose ambition would not be held within
the boundaries of their domain.

We all share a boat ride on The Seine, 
yet have distinct impressions of the city 
according to our polyglot narrator

who ends the cruise in silence beside
the Eiffel Tower, where we gawk at how 
its upward sloping iron lattice
extends with purpose into the sky.

Only four pairs of chromosomes, 
yet variety can be seen

in a swarm that hovers above 
the countertop compost bucket –

each one drunk off the scent of rot 
makes its own meandering flight 

then scatters away from the group
when my shadow darkens the cells

in their vermillion eyes. 

Given to us for our wedding by my wife’s family:
a handmade pottery bowl from Louisiana
glazed white as cream with a thin dark blue rim 
and large fleur-de-lis around the exterior. 

Having limited space to display things in our home,
it stayed inside a kitchen cabinet among other breakables
during most of our marriage’s first four years
until recently being brought out at summer harvest 

when we noticed our local orchard’s subscription boxes
contained some fruit not yet ripe enough to eat;
out of its packed confines where it was isolated 
from our partnership’s daily life – the joys, 

mundane and profound which we are blessed with 
by fortune, as well as the moments of strife, 
due to carelessness or misunderstanding – 
the bowl now sits on a wood table in our dining room. 

There it receives afternoon sun through a window 
facing west. Every week, it hosts nectarines, 
apricots, and pears whose skin is still tough against
our eager teeth, whose flesh has not yet sweetened.

Fingers gently probe the bounty embraced in the curve 
of this bowl, checking readiness for union with our bodies, 
and the fruit lets us know it will soon satisfy our craving, 
provided a little time and adequate light. 

A pop song fades out on the radio,
my ten-year-old self in the car with mom
heading back home after errands in town.

“I love it when they do that!” I exclaim,
meaning how the band chose to end their song
by letting it get softer and softer

until it vanishes under road noise:
the brisk strum of tires on highway asphalt,
wind fluttering over metal and glass, 

both on top of the engine’s steady drone. 
But mom, a professional musician
who studied piano with Juilliard –

trained instructors and when she was my age
went to summer camp at Interlochen,
brings her erudite opinion to bear.

“Ending a song that way is a cop out.”
She says. “They can’t decide how to finish,
so they let it fade away. It’s lazy.”

I opt not to argue my point with her. 
What can be said to sway such conviction
from a person who reveres Beethoven 

and only sometimes abides The Beatles
being played on our living room stereo?
Our exchange ends with no conclusion. 

Instead, when we slow toward our village,
afternoon sunshine beginning to wane
on the wide fields of tall grass we pass by,

I roll my window down and listen 
to a vast orchestra of crickets chirping,
their music’s gradual decrescendo

as the distance grows between us and them,
understanding it’s a song that goes on
even if you can’t hear it anymore.