The Lice Picker

The Lice Picker

The Lice Picker

A fine tooth comb then
and my fingernails
preserve me a place
on a bench in the sun
God’s great gifts
gain me a crust
tales from the priest’s learned head
and those of his crone mother
I am the lowliest
and most needed
thirty years ago I bore
the priest’s bastard
young and beautiful
I bled and almost died  saved
by our Lord Christ
now   my daughter
warms his bed and I am
the mistress
of grey-backs
the parter of hair scraper of skin
would I believe the soul
is only blood
like my neighbour Pierre
destined to go the same way
as all earthly things
then at night the dark
might smile upon me and the howls
of wolves
would not seem so near
I believe in the ‘good men’
as much as I can understand
what the priest tells me
he protects them
from the bishop—
that feaster after funerals
rider of fat mules
who orders an Easter candle
two stone of wax
the ruin of our village
some say the spirits of the dead
run hither and thither
with the wind  will enter
any hole—
the anus of a horse or a hare
a good soul
finds a woman
whose place it is to be its home
bear it while it grows and
birth it living
my stomach rumbles
but these good men say
we should eat no food
which is Satan’s trick
to lead us into sin    yesterday
the widow
talked of Beatrice
noble lady who
also warmed the priest’s back
for him too
cracked the shells of these creatures
spawned in Hell which bring
me good…
now she lies dying
the endura upon her
(God spare me)
final penance for taking
a young lover
soon run away
with another
refusing to take bread she is
becoming bone
as we all will be
then ash and dust
swept away like cobweb
some talk of the dead
riding through dreams
proof we may live again
(please not a sow!)
one man a black mare
which lost its shoe
in Mérens Pass
awaking he knew exactly where
and later found it wedged
between some rocks
they say Heaven is big enough
for all (I hope)
stretching from here to at least
Toulouse
when the season comes
and the elms put forth their leaves
I think of that other
poor woman frying her tiny carp
in the public square
the Virgin Mother smiled her grace
making the fish jump
out of the pan
into the fountain
where they still swim this day
fried golden on one side
(may I see them
before I die)
but now my belly is empty
and I want a fine big pie
stuffed
with river eel  knowing it will be
miracle enough
to taste
stale bread