GASCON JOURNEY
I have set out to meet her
for the last time， to examine
a face that resembles mine
in one corner above the right eye
and in a temple vein.
Fontainebleu， Tours， Poitiers，
Angoul~me. The train feeds
the voyager a dream of calm.
My mother and father， their secrets
hummed like rails， flew through
road beds and coupling cars.
Unlikely lovers.
\"I d almost forgotten，\" she will sigh.
\"Why do you persist7\" She won t look
into my eyes. I ll watch her turn away
after I leave. A flutter of a memory
too swift to catch will vanish in a meadow，
a corridor of trees. Was it her face
bent over my crib? Were her shoulders
hunched when she whispered to the priest?
What did she confess to him?
I almost see her， my rare and somber visitor，
the mother nuns said was a cousin or an aunt
The long aisle of lies. I also sigh. I，
unknown to the few of a thinning clan，
have come this far to see a blood stranger.
Bordeaux， Agen， N~rac， Espiens.
There are questions I will never ask.
There are answers she will never give.
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