Mr. Soulié made pommes frites twice a day
in a kitchen full of books that overtook his flat
gathered on tables shelves and dressers
on fine furniture with pearly inlay
My brother was friendly with the literary gentleman
who confided he’d written a famous book
for a well-known West African writer
Then adopted a son
Kelefa Keita who came from Conakry Guinea
with a whole collection of African art
masks and gourds and staffs and wooden sculptures
ornate with bone and shells
You need to clean these things they give you asthma
all that dust old books yellowed paper remonstrated
my unimpressed mother who rang his bell
for conversation on her way up to our flat
But Monsieur Soulié laughed wide mouthed and ah ah ah
until he choked three full minutes and laboriously began
breathing again while my mother fretted – Didn’t I tell you? –
And then he recovered and began ah ah ah again
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To find more poetry by Liliane Richman on this blog, click HERE.
Bonnie McClellan-Broussard 