See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil

My mother entrusted my father
with the camera while she headed for a levered
well, five canteens in tow. Now's our chance,


my father said, and something about the cat
being away. This was in Tennessee
or Myrtle Beach, or was it Columbus? Some city


where damp clouds are known to obscure navy
evening light, some torn cityscape framed by a vinyl sun
and barely a moon. Me and my two older


brothers, born in intervals of two years
and two months, lined a stone fence
as our father prepared the camera.


A photo he had wanted to take ever
since I arrived and made two small primates
three. Film was limited. No pictures


until we get to the ocean: my mother's petite
demande, eschewed in favour of a slight
evil: the pulp, perhaps,


of evil's fruit. We were thirsty
but eager to partake in a secret. I covered my eyes;
Nic covered his ears; Dan, his mouth.


Our electric looks: the clean hands of mischief,
the certainty of harmlessness, like a pair of chimps
who snuck a pal into the ark.


This was many years ago, before I realized we
were mice, playing. Those days I still needed palms,
many palms, to deafen and silence and


blind me, keep any misconduct
at bay. The soft, even friendly evils, the ones
you search for and, years later, cannot


escape, the dopey events your life
is, if done right. And it's all you can do
to keep them from entering your

face, with all its points of entry.

© Ben Ladouceur