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Jun 01, 2026
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The Frenglishman
I have English in my heart.
I know how that sounds for a frenchman. Like betrayal, maybe, until I hear what English kept from going quiet. English got the poems, the long thoughts, the little jokes I used as splints.
French is not in my heart.
It’s dans mon corps.
I know how that sounds too. Like I’m hiding a language in the body because my mouth keeps dropping it. But French got there before grammar did: the room changing, the look across the table, ça va landing in my stomach as leave it alone. It got the warning. It got the flinch. It got the body before I did.
And yet, when I bleed,
I bleed
before either language
gets a say.
— patrickgadoury, Jun 01, 2026
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About This Poem
Style/Type: Free verse
Review Request Direction:
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Review Request Intensity: I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing Stage: Polish
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