Dreaming of a Dead Uncle

A butterfly hedgehog swam over

to where I was dangling my feet

in the cold sluice by Chimney Flats.

We spoke Esperanto, alternating

with French until the sun died.

"Do you think the dead rise again?"

I didn't know what to say to him.

But I did suddenly remember:

I don't speak French at all.

It was more of a parlor accent

given to words we knew as children

only to forget them in later strides.

He didn't pay me much mind,

turning in circles around my toes

going blue in the flowing bridgewater.

I reached down touching wings

of dust and coarse roses vanishing.

We hooted a bit as the moon jumped

up high, huge with the smell of varmints.

Bugs came out like freed prisoners.

A heron walked upside down

on the darkened felt of falling sky.

Someone's sister skipped by us,

grinning like a fish on a plate.

She had the gold eyes like a goat.

What else could have I said

in that moment of death

to my furry flittering companion?

Later, under a fumey lamp

I realized that it was something

about old grocery tills overflowing

with shotgun shells and candied bones.                                                           printable