Croissants

Late in the night he comes, ma petite, mon chere,
kiss on the nose like a kitten's-
ma belle fille, des bonnes reves.

In the morning he will wake you
with butter in a pan, his smile is wide
as a cat's, his eyes are like yours, mon cherie.
He brings you a mug of je t'aime
with your eggs, yolk-y sunlit room,
cavernous with his laugh.

He reaches for the suitcases,
full of ma petite, mon chere even as you grab
his slick hands, at the door you are asking,
begging, but he says only ah, ma belle fille,
and slips through the cracks in your fingers.