Remember the broad rattle of grief
is a walking stick or a rain stick
and now you are a witch doctor.
Shake the rain onto the blinds
and over the abdomens of others.
Make the dance specially haunted.
My father’s a zumbi. He dances
in a little shop he’s bought
in Montpelier with single-origin light
where he lives by the grace
of fixing things. Through the white-wash
on the windows I hear steel grind
and strings twang. He dances
La Tarantella like a maiden
courting the poltergeist of Sunday morning
itching his bites and sweating out poison.
182 The Paris-American
Colin Dekeersgieter holds degrees from The University of Vermont and The City University of New York, Graduate Center. He is a Pushcart nominee with work featured in The Worcester Review, Out of Our, The Poetry Quarterly and elsewhere. He lives and writes in New York City.
Next week's poet: