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Le Pont-Canal du Répudre
by Kate Kingston

Stones so old, I could slip on their weathered baldness,
             scrape my knees on their crevices.
             So old, I forget how they taste.

Stones so old, they hear my father's voice telling me
             he blew up bridges in southern France,
             the only thing he ever told me about his war.

Stones so old, they whisper, lilac, mallard, thistle.
             They are stained with turquoise graffiti, grey lichen.
             Bicycle tires soothe their eroded shoulders.

Stones so old, they remember my father's jeep, his army fatigues,
             his head full of numbers, his hands full of dynamite.
             So old, their crevices smell like lilies.

Stones so old, they fed the catapult that cut off
             the walled city of Minerve from its well.
             Now they chant, windmill, vineyard, Canal du Midi.

Stones so old they remember the purr of my father's jeep, rattle
             of metal doors, his foot on the pedal. I place my hand
             on their eroded grey curves, leave fingerprints.

Stones so old, they hear my father explain he's come
             to cut off the ammunition supply.
             So old, their ears are filled with orange moss.


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