Wendy Cannella: “Gala Dali Speaks Broken French”

Of the spinning wheels—trés vite
and straight

from the States of the United 
to Montréal City. Of the heavy

traffic—bumper to bumper—and us, look
at us, full to the brim, a clown car

of activists, caravan 
of aerialists, 

and suddenly I pull my black hat
down lower over my forehead, telling each of you

which lines are yours to sing, wanting it all so badly

to lead into the poem— 
turning 

up Footloose, snapping back 
the door handles 
to escape like Smurfs

into the congested highway
—and this takes us 
nowhere, egotism of drawing
attention, egotism of dwelling on 

those swaying hips—between stopped cars—

but this is it, this is where 
we dance the good 

little dancing, I mean some
excellent shaking—will you make it
meaningful in the end? Will you

make out with me? For the moment will you hold 
the wheel—I’m taking my sweater
off and the stars 
seem so agitated up there

trembling in their deep space
and that is just the sort of dramatic 
gesture we’ve come to expect

from the stars and one after another our 
sweaters are cast off.  The traffic starting
to move again, the drivers left

with the unsettling ache of knowing 
they have teeth inside
their tender mouths—strangeness
of the body, and of living—through them the breath
of words. I think. Je pense. I believe. 

Je crois. I feel. Je sens. The neck
and the shoulders. Le visage. I never thought

I had power to hurt
anybody. I can barely make sense. 
But why else would I coerce the entire universe

into bowing before my imagination, 
bestowing a corny nickname
on each of us. You’re Mama and I’m 
La Bamba—let’s cover

the world with our America, yeah let’s take it 

with us to the Jazz Festival—where all of us—my Papa, my Painter,
my Smurfette—my friends all of us my friends made wreaths

of our foolishness 
and I made a nice wreath 
I wear it around my face

all night, the prayer for you
to touch me. 
Symphatique, symphatique.
This is nice. It feels good. 

You want to hear something else, something sophisticated 

in French but I’m far
too young to know what it is you want. I know only one phrase.

It tells us when the music moves 
you will hold my hand and eat
from my hand—it tells me the whole bright blue 

night is a crown. So here is my 
stupid, unstoppable tongue.
If you misunderstand, 
you misunderstand.