Leslie Lutz·PoetryParis SummerRegardez, I say to my daughter, Un croissant, a tree, c’est un arbre en français, and that, that’s a soldierwith an automatic weapon. I teach her the name in French, Un soldat avec une mitraillette,as if the name of a thing matters when you carry a gun as one would carry a long box of roses, or a folded parasol.Regardez, I say, One of them is a girl. See her ponytail? And I’m not sure whyI pointed that out to her, except perhaps to say that she, too, can be one of them She, too, can carry the weapon.I have not yet taught her the word “terrorism” in English or French. I’m glad she’s only four, so I don’t have to explainwhy armed soldiers walk the streets of Paris. Instead we laugh as the pigeons crowd around her so thick they move like a seaof gray and white around the island she is already becoming. Some land on her head, and shegasps, delighted. She asks for more bread. I do not tell her that if she were made of bird seed,they wouldn’t love her more. They would consume her, down to her bones.