France

Miranda Peake

In the taxi from the airport
I tried to say
my friends are there already.
I tried to say
I’ll need to get back again somehow.

In the restaurant we remained English,
suitcases at our feet.

He stopped for a wild boar dead
in the road. I arranged my face
for tragedy, but he
treated it like a lottery win.

Arms loll towards glasses yellow
to the top. Olives roll over and for a while
everyone talks about the hornets,
how they got into the kitchen,
how we’ll get them out.

I shift my legs to find a cool place
in the bed. From downstairs, female voices
insulate the house, chinking away
the things of dinner.

The men who are the most
like women,
those are the ones to choose
they said, spread about on sofas.

This room, big as a town square
holds the evening in
slate grey
as alcohol starts to crumple my map.