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 Quarterlyand elsewhere. He lives and writes in New York City.