The rain brought us
from underneath, and
he finds us in the morning
while playing behind l’ecole.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?”
Inquisitive fingers pry
at the damp dirt around us, disturb
a gray-pink worm searching for a meal.
We watch grimy nails scrape
against glass and we wriggle,
eager to see le soleil
for the first time.
Thirty years is a long time
to be in the dark.
We remember the day they buried us,
formaldehyde still stinging
our bleeding roots as they covered
our jar with dirt- une
histoire triste.
Time crawls like winter underground.
He pulls us from our thoughts
and to the surface. He peers at us,
his smudged nose and
cornflower eyes grown wide- a mixture
of intrigue and disgust-
our liberator: beautiful.
He lifts us into the air,
blonde head tilted to watch
as we turn lazy circles. Our pale
flesh prickles, unaccustomed to
the luminosity of day.
His piping voice trills
the air and calls l’enseignant,
and tomorrow, we’ll be home.
This is the chanson du
charpentier.
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