Ugh, you speak dirty French, she purrs steamily,
like only a Marseillais can while insulting a foreigner.
She wrinkles her nose and glides like a spectre
across the floor in her pristine summer dress
and perfect nails, holding a glass of Provençal wine
in her delicate fingers.
The Parisian man thinks otherwise,
says québécois is the purest French,
being protected by law,
says the language of the Parisians and Marseillais
are tainted by international and English jargon,
that the French have become sloppy
with their pronunciation and slang,
that the French can be arrogant of their culture
while so easily letting it be crushed, but so slowly that
one day they will wake up and wonder what happened,
that they are too willing to sacrifice the truly important
for the economically beneficial, and that, of course,
this can be said of most cultures today.
But I am only half listening,
thinking mainly of the Marseillais woman,
her melodic voice, her pristine summer dress
and perfect nails, her delicate fingers,
and how, in disparaging me,
she enchanted me.
