poem of the day 04.21.10

oskah vilde

we are chasing ghosts
in another cemetery

my wife and i

we chase ghosts all of the time

she comes up to us and says
“ou se trouve oscar wilde?”
in the sort of french accent
that could knock a man out

maybe she is thirteen
but she’s already a killer
with her chestnut hair and dark eyes

my wife tells her
“je ne parle pas francias.”

i don’t know what
in the hell they are saying to each other
except that it has something
to do with oscar wilde

it feels good not to fully understand

the girl gives an old look
and asks “anglais?”

“oui,” my wife says

the girl smiles
and says “i am looking
for the grave of oskah vilde”

she says it like that

os-kah vilde

her accent is making me
go os-kah vilde

my wife shows her the location
of the grave on her map
without thinking i hand her
my map of the cemetery

“por vous,” i say
getting in the spirit of things

the girl is reluctant to take the map at first
but eventually she gives in

she skips off with her brother

“when she gets older
she should go to college in america,”
i tell my wife, “she’d destroy
a whole generation of men
with that accent.”

my wife just looks at me

“did you see how reluctant she was
to take my map,” i say, “it must
be a cultural thing.”

“yeah, that’s it,” my wife says.

then we wander off to find
where they put marcel proust
after all of those years
he spent pouring out his soul
in that cork-lined room.