poem of the day 12.21.12

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 odd 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.

                                    04.19.10