Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and author of two novels as well as seven poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She was twice nominated for a Pushcart. Her latest: DO OCEANS HAVE UNDERWATER BORDERS? (Kelsay Books July 2022), WHISTLING IN THE DARK (Ciberwit July 2022), and SAUDADE (December 2022) are available on Amazon. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

The first time I saw black

And they were very, very black.
Tall, elegant, and black.
My friend and I, newbies in Paris, 18 and wide-eyed.
We were sophisticated Parisians, sitting in a café
on the Left Bank. La rive gauche.
People watching. What else?
She from Sweden, I from Germany.
We had met at the Sorbonne,
measuring the size of the world.
Susanne had a Vermouth; I had a Dubonnet. 
It tasted like poison, but the ads were irresistible,
and if you wanted to pass for international grown-up,
you said it out loud, pronounced it just so.
To the gorgeous waiter who smiled.
He couldn’t have been much older than we were.
Oh, and his French… Mais oui!
And then they walked by. Slowly.
Seemed to be looking
for a table. 
We passed each other as we were leaving.
I think we gaped.
At that moment the dynamic changed.
Instead of sitting down where we had just left,
those two handsome guys
accompanied us to the bridge.
Leaning over the sides of the bridge, looking into
the dark waters of the river Seine,
we made conversation haltingly, our French
at an embryo stage. Comment ça va?
Those two were fluent, but had an accent we hadn’t
heard before. The whites of their shirt collars emphasized
the black of the skin of their necks and faces;
when they smiled we saw a row of white
gleaming in the streetlights that lined the bridge.
Well, you know.
The usual.
D'où venez-vous?
Where are you from? 
It’s been so long, I think they came from Senegal.
I don’t know about my friend,
but as we stood there and tried our wings,
one of the Senegalese boys put his hand on the bridge stones
next to mine. 
My hand so white.
His hand so black.
We looked at each other and marvelled,
our hearts growing in the knowledge that the world
was indeed a wondrous place.

Recipe for Wellness

I recommend a pinch of self-mockery,
and two teaspoons full of shoulder shrugs
because, after all, there isn’t much you can do.
Add a cup full of hilarity and two units
of friendship. Let it brew and pour in laughter—
as much as the bowl will hold—wrap it all
in unconditional love. Forgetting is not part of this recipe,
but top your mixture with a generous dollop of forgiveness.
Take this at least five times a day then lie back,
relax, and have a glass of Champagne.