Peter was scholarly

until big books drove him mad.

Lacan: Ecrits.

He lived with Latin aunts and cousins
in a long bungalow and would stroll
barefooted along Second Avenue
with his shirt flung open
reciting Kierkegaard and Merleau-Ponty.
Otherwise he stalked iguanas in the mandrake root

and was known to walk naked

in Aranguez bush,

hunting hairy snakes and strange fruit.

One morning there was mud on the silver gate
— must be footprints of Peter — my grandfather said
and showed me how a shovel was stolen, holes
where green avocados were picked
still breathing

from the tree.

But the day I had a high fever
it was Peter who carried me on his back
across Aranguez savannah
to see Doctor Boos in Silver Mill.
Crick-crack and they found him
in the jungle where rain had fallen.
Fresh scent, snake scent, egg white

in the yolk

of his throat.