SIGNAL

   for Jim Mottonen

Back when I was an Indian
I am climbing through the dark
with my best friend, Billy.
We prowl the deep cuts until just
out of sound of the rampaging
dormitories.  Stradling a fallen tree
we take swigs from a flask
of wine,  draw breath,  and listen.
Above us in the black beyond
the swaying tips of bursting branches,
string tangled in the branches,  our yellow
 kite flaps in a hard wind.
Billy grins and whispers,  three days,  three nights.
In a nearby field two lovers gaze
at the sky,  imagine a ghost,  a UFO.
I look up.
Murmuring,  Billy remembers being
a boy frozen by spidery
shadows on his bedroom curtain.
I remember hands like webs.
He takes the flask from my fingers.
The string is still taut.
We haven't been to class in days.
No one has noticed.

  - Mark Turcotte