DINANDIER

by Chris Monier

By late May, signs of spring on the bayou— 

the white clover, chardrons, piss-en-lits—

have all but gone.   

They were like gauze, like bijoux  

on tortured land that wanes. 

Here, spring is a sliver.

As Townes Van Zandt sang,

it only sighs.

An alluvial reach

into oceanic summer,

into notre hiver.

In the haze between seasons,

after the festivals are over,

I picture you:

you are out back of the house

in the paneled shed,

among calendars and tools, 

you have finished your pro bono work,

four copper steeples for Ste-Philomène

(men came to get them in big dually trucks

and drove them up the bayou).   

As the air thickens,  

you feel a colère that would     

grow on you like a carapace,  

that would putt along for months  

if you flipped it the keys.

But you know better:

you drink water, inch close to the chaleur,

you remember that mound in the bois

that someone told you was a tumulus—

and that day at the zoo, en ville—

your petite-fille’s hands had concealed dried leaves

and you saw her stretching towards a lagoon

to offer them to the creatures.