she was for a year or two.
Sweeping floors she recited verbs
"je suis / tu es / il est"
while her fiancé crawled in the army.

Belittled immigrants,
the madam had many,
locking doors at night
to block the son out.

The madam is dead now,
naught but a pinch in the chest
from a street, a play,
a remindful sweep.