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IV. Riviere Chiagnez


Just past exit 15, before you reach the flea market—

            the pastor’s wife will be selling boiled peanuts by the bucket—

                                                                                                on weekdays.


Look, underneath each shell is a verse from John {no one is quite sure how she does it}.


                                                            In the beginning was the Word.

                                                            Unless you people see signs and wonders,

                                                            you will never believe.


The shells get shucked from windows about a mile north

and land near a stream that will be frozen this time of year.


Foxes will likely dart across the ice leaving blueberry paw-prints.



            Last year two brothers went to the stream searching for a lost lacrosse ball.

            The older ate their peanuts on the shore while the younger put

                                                                                                              a hole in the ice

                                                                                                             with the heel of his boot.

His sock was damp the whole ride home

and he stayed in bed this past Christmas

with a cough—

sick as a dog.


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