The fatherly hunting trip as deep hills
ring with helicopter fire. As a priest
in one life, an oil man in another. Until
schoolboys arrive in uniform it’s not a feast

just a pickpocket’s banquet. Instead of a dance,
trials are held for each other. You first.
Me last. Dressed in the usual slipstitch fare
that mothers recognize as work

needled by their own hands, we march the guilty,
and herald the squad. Those off the hook find caskets
as a tool box. As the last ice of winter melts. As ice fishing
accidents. Through April storms, a daughter backs

an orange pickup next to the house. Inside
her mother tosses skinned potatoes with onions.
Over dinner and beer they recall a town with a name
that conjures soldiers offered to the sun,

the lists of families gathered and shot
with their damn hearts fixed
in their throats. The lucky bunch. Not
one hundred miles away a general wishes

he could go back home. Freed
people, he thinks, are worth the train
that brought me here. As in a Kankakee tavern
a boy skips his tab and is chased through rain.

The Mayor has polished his horns with gold
flaked stain. It has gotten to the point that
he mostly celebrates the low turnouts. These
parades have left streamers like ribbons

torn on the telephone lines and branches.
Peanut shells have been taken by the birds
to build gates around their nests. Another parade
comes through tomorrow. Stray dogs drag limbs

from the river once the mustard’s out. I remember
when I was small a woman in a blue apron
tucked me under when a horse was spooked
by a father gathering candy corn, taffy

and spools of twine, some buttons
and a spittoon. The loot was slight.
Another parade and these streets
will cave away. Telephone poles will tip

onto the tubas, women, children and stock
tripping the mules and fanfare. The Mayor
has no idea. The river is blocked.
All the criminals in town are awake.