top of page

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.

 

bottom of page