Ancestor Story

Flaxen, the moribund
               shoals
into the devil-mouthed cave
           retreat—
               even-steven:

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

Albumen pile—
           Flower-Power
           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

      want
      this dream, yet

I’m going to have it.

           Mark Lamoureux