58 The Meadow early one morning George Perreault my youngest brother died soon enough it was still yesterday back home, a day with thirteen stones strung out like beads along Asylum Avenue. i’d asked my brother how he was doing and he said i’m dying and he wondered about heaven in a simple act of faith for that’s how he was built. he’d lived long enough there was a word for what he was, a word honored among some tribes, and there was some latinate for how he’d pass, like fruit never shaken from the limb. he’d saved up silver and gold, and left it all to the church after paying for a pantomime, smoke drifting from a thurible as in days dressed with cassock and surplice or sagesmudged nights in a sweat lodge chanting oiseau noir, osieau noir in search of something else.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==