He Danced with Accordion Lungs for N’onc Moi upon his passing 9/1/00 He danced with accordion lungs Pumped la musique cadienne through his body Until black notes oozed from the pores, A capella, And danced about like saucy cayennes. The acrid aroma seared the nose hairs Tasted like drunken Cajuns Waltzing to “Jolie Blonde.” No, more like jitterbugging To The Mamou Playboys. When the hurricane came to Louisiana The trees tico tico’d to and fro In a wind that decimated the Gulf coast. “Mais, mon p’tit,” my uncle loved to say In cases like these. “If it wasn’t for Hurricanes the trees would never dance.” When the aerophone gale of blackness Swept through Chataignier like a can can Kicking up my uncle’s shiny black dancing shoes, He flew through the air after them like Terpsichore. Little June tried to catch his N’onc Moi But could not snatch the airy spirit From the watery washboard sky. Il voyage tout partout, mais il reste a sa maison en terre. The accordion whispers, “Don’t drop the potato” But only in Cajun. The music notes rise Up and up, abbandono, but my uncle’s Lungs sing no more. First appeared in Southern Indiana Review, 2003