I blame Camus

Patrica was 20 when Albert
Took her in his arms and they danced.

In 1945, Bidasse and Mandarine were born.
Comic children of a comic-less time.

Patricia was not their mother,
Nor was Maria Casarès, Spanish passion.

It was Francine.
Francine, who could not offer Chinatown and foxtrots,

Only

two children 
two suicide attempts
.

Was it his fault

that he couldn’t resist a smile?
that he needed his freedom?
that he was never made for marriage?*

hair still clotted with vomit looking up from her hospital bed as the man she had given all her unwarranted love looks down paternally a young woman shouts:

yes yes it is your fucking fault

*These three lines are a literal translation from page 40 of Le Figaro’s hors-série on Albert Camus, December 2009 and were the point of departure for this poem.

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