little one (II) brécourt

Found you low in a garden,

your smell: curry powder.

You were wrapped in a bag I thought was dirt

(yellow bags in the trees grew from dirt)

wilting lemons in the sun

(dirt sun, grown from yellow bags in the 30s)

little sun, waiting in backrooms,

out in nowhere -

you were a green pebble with darker-green eyes

and all the trappings of brécourt nobility

shooting rockets, hidden.

I cooked a loose flame 'neath your belly,

smelled that curried smell

and smoked,

juvenile clump of backwoods, cracking leaves,

aureate glow on my shirt.

You're not here, so the Black and Tans,

make peace with Sinn Feinn and shake their hands,

and the backwoods are frontwards, once again