monde des esprits, ghost world

little gray lifts his pallid nose to taste

the air, sniffing for another naked tail,
sewer-sodden fur, bony feet;
he listens to the the storm drain weep,
& whispers pour with water:
bon nuit, mon frère,
won't you be a dear &
joignez les vivants?

in the alley above, with the living,

someone's chatte noire is out tonight,
haunting la rue;
before curling into sleep, she thinks
of a space like a storm drain,
tucked between folds
of wet, deadening sky—
& while there is no grate, her thought
still leaves a space.
all the rodents she swallows up
stick around as phantoms; they keep well away
from her, meurtrier of rats here & beyond;
should she eat them twice, she gains a life—
chews up the bones, laps up the soul,
grows further away from vieux, old.

by methods reserved for the eldest

of parisian vagrants—suivant leur habitude—
by an exit of the saint-michel metro,
a gypsy prays, or positions her hands
to convey praying, pressing palms
too tightly for the rain to get in.
her head bends down, drooping
with mismatched layers wrapped &
sagging like the skin beneath her eyes,
& while she tries to stay tangible,
the phantom rats read her cardboard plea,
propped & wilting over her knees:
aidez-moi, je pourrais être
votre grand-mère.
she's a collector of memories & ampersands,
a weaver of gossamer, matron to the nameless--
she would assure little gray, as rat keepers may,
that rats need to be loved,
& she wouldn't need aide
if all her chéris and etceteras had stayed. her ghosts
are still ghosts, but before le souleil wakes
they persuade the rain to say:
bon matin, grand-mère,
won't you be a dear &
joignez les mortes?
Joe Welch, Poem Project #4