After Nabokov
"Je raffoule de tout ce qui rampe"
she said, as she led me down a narrow hall
to show me her collection, my first impression:
fluttered clusters of colors, darkly flossed.
I peered around the room. In each nook
shelved rows of bottled insects shook,
clattered with such translucent laughter,
I couldn't resist reaching for my notebook.
"Qu'est-ce que vous avez, mon petit renard?"
she asked, while I protested with broken words,
"Do not compare me to any fox," I said,
"Writers are magpies, filthy birds."
"Scusez-moi," she replied, her spine in an arch,
"mais je ne comprend pas." Her eyes were dark.
I raised a hand. "Let me explain, in my trade you
sift through rubbish and steal the shiny parts.
Saying "Regardez cet scarabee," she placed
an exotic beetle on my face,
stifling my breath, while she traced
her finger down its golden carapace.
"J'ai desolee. Tu n'es pas comme le renard,
et pas la pie. What is the word?
Tu es comme cet scarabee, et moi,
I'm just crazy about everything that crawls."
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