Chez Nous

by Christine Adams Beckett

Çe n’est pas un truc;
Çe n’est pas un lieu.

Not tasted from the
plate set with care
before us, or in a
bottomless cup of

butter tea, bitter
and pungent in its
reality, warm and
encompassing in

concept, an endless
envelope: like music
felt at the base of
the neck, that eases

the strain, taut with
burden, numbers, words
the stark concreteness
of life outside this


Not a brush stroke or
a structure, to dwell,
but a wave of warmth
where the melody

is felt, understood,
the notes left unread.
So pull up a chair.
Stay a while. Stay an