Sous Rature



           Ancestor Story

Flaxen, the moribund
into the devil-mouthed cave

For this
    I crush an egg in my hand,
               an embryo oozes
    out the fist
               like paint.

Albumen pile—
           this is the sister
                of the sun.

My place on the map,
    here, yet not sure
    how I arrived.  Have you seen
my ancestors?
                Tell them
            to stay in France.

     The graffiti supercedes
            the blushing trees.

In crypt & barrow with bland
            brown walls, their skulls
hover & wag.

Why come here?          
                         For a dollar.
         Shall even this withered tube
            try to pass a golden

egg?  Those people went down
    under the factory like dirt,

into the churning bay, the slag,

      the sinking days— the curve

heaves, an angry sleeper.  I do not

      this dream, yet

I’m going to have it.


           Mark Lamoureux