Nos pensées sont dictées d’outre–mer
It was you who said we were ‘falling’
and called it ‘love’. Like the french,
an anxious government in my head
assembled a meeting, stiffening their beards
with the perfumed grease of nationalism.
“Protegez notre langue! We cannot be seen
to have our language dictated by overseas!”
they threw down their canes.
I developed my secret ‘franglais’ :
“Will you get me some yoghurt at the supermarket?”
browsing at ‘le supermarche’ I throw spurious spices into our trolley.
“I love you,” you say.
“I love you too, baby.”