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A Model Model U.N.

A Model Model U.N.

BJ Love

 

A big red bag of melted fruit snacks and the din

of a few kids arguing over the statehood of African

nations. He’s too raw, he says. Get with your world

geography, he says. Côte d’Ivoire, he says, is just

the Ivory Coast. Lots of people speak French, but

I am not one of them. Flooding is expected to begin

shortly. Act quickly to protect your life. It’s not

what the flood can take that scares me, it’s everything

the flood can leave. My hands are red and sticky.

My hands are a warning that this air is turning

against us. A wisp of words slices the silence. Some

body is building something to say. Somebody is

getting ready to say something. I found, in Texas

that the rain is ready to argue any time. The rain

is ready to out-shout you at any time. Lightning

shuts you up. Thunder makes you question you

ever intended to talk at all. Look at the sky. It looks

like your shame spiral. It looks gray-green and

without appetite. I would say gaunt, but only for

the shock of it. Only for the brief distraction it could

offer before I tell you about chanson, about my love

for every chanteuse, for the lady who sings delightful

purple songs beneath the pink and breaking clouds.

Warm water waves to my toes. The lady crescendos

and I am flooded. I am overcome. What new land

is this, I ask the kids. You. Yeah, you. What name

does this go by? I don’t know, he says, but I remember

the flag being mostly white, the sun being mostly red

and the horizon being completely yellow and dressed

with the bluest flowers you have ever laid eyes on.

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