Scrimshaw

A poem

So, I live in Pennsylvania, home of potato filling, cabbage slaw,
shoofly pie, apple butter, scrapple, red beet eggs, hog maw,
solid starchy stuff. But when I want to go wild, overdraw
my account, then I fly to Paris, change to a black lace bra,
matching panties. Stop at a bistro, eat oysters in the raw
with brown bread, unsalted butter, wine the color of pale straw,
then stroll down a leafy street, wander gardens I could draw
if I had talent. For a country girl, this is shock and awe:
even a folded napkin, a work of art. I’m sure there are flaws,
but I can’t see them. I prefer Pépé le Peu to Quick Draw McGraw,
​Gérard Dépardieu to Brad Pitt, Isabelle Hupert to Kate Capshaw,
Coq au Vin to KFC, Bain de Soleil to Coppertone, scofflaw
that I am. Ray Charles said, Tell your mama, tell your pa
I’m gonna send you back to Arkansas,
but I don’t want to go there, or to Utah or Omaha. 
I want to stay in Paris for that je ne sais quois.

“Scrimshaw” originally appeared in Nimrod International Journal’s Spring/Summer 2014 issue, Reimagined: Bridging This World and Others.

Barbara Crooker is the author of eight books of poetry, including “Les Fauves” (C&R Press, 2017) and “The Book of Kells” (Cascade Books, 2019). Her work frequently appears on The Writer’s Almanac and American Life in Poetry.