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~. . . i W i S H....~ Raja-nime's poetry
Colts
Like little bouncy-ball joints on which stands The entirety of preadolescent being— Their legs are twigs. I could almost snap them. They have the buds that will someday blossom— One at the touch of a first child, The other at the stroke of a lover. The fat melts and drips off of them, Their shameless hands holding to a cherry Coke cream soda Like a rosary. And the legs, not yet straight, Turn in and bend a bit between the Tibia and the metatarsals. Nestled between them like a treasure, the globe. Oh nations, bow down. You cannot hope to break the secrets of these bodies, Let alone the hinge and clutch of a single small joint Of these innumerable, secret futures. Love Song to a Draftmatic Dominatrix Tall and thin— Breastless, hipless, legless, armless. Bald. I imagine There’s an ad somewhere—“Wanted; One unused or unblemished face.” No beauty, personality. Sexless And ageless. Nonetheless, she’s a bitch. I still need her. The purse of her lips— The click of a barrel. I’ve lost, lost, lost. I put what she’s shat out onto the page, holding my fingers Round her waist, And proceed to smear it all over. Darling mistress, Look what you’ve done. Wanted Must come in a set of two. Must be white, dyed a little bit pink. (This color of my skin—I must not have gloves for hands. Aye, now I know the difficulties of the politically correct!) Must be redwood sturdy, soft enough to hold, firm enough to shake. Please remove all adornments before sending. It does not matter if they’re scabbed, bruised, or missing a thing or two. The only need to know how To cook; And learn And grip And hold And love And live. Discrimination It’s not that I hate you— You, with your sagging celluse and accumulated beads of moisture. It’s not that I’m comparing you to this fresh young thing— Bright green, sturdy as a tree, unbending. The drops roll off it like rain on aloe vera leaves and When it breaks, you hear it SNAP! For memories of better salad days… It’s not that I hate you. Well… Never mind. It is. You don’t taste good Cloaked in Hidden Valley Ranch. |
Doing Good by McCavity
Proud? Nay. Merely a cat owner. So I’ll walk with straight legs, face forward, Pupils reluctantly round in the prismatic irises, I’ll wear worn leather pennyloafers to work, and My prey won’t hear me coming ‘till I brush against them, And their surprise paints a splash of brown and colorful words against their starched button-ups. Boss? I’ll regard him with an aloof curiosity While my finger-pads tease and unravel the story of a loose thread On the sleeve of my jacket. Lunchtime, and I’ll walk to places unknown, and wonder If people question whether I’ll ever come back. I’ll walk on the edge of life, the tightrope between mortality and godhood, And imagine an airy, thrashy tail holding me in place. And at night I’ll hold my Muffin Or Cupcake And we’ll lie under the covers. I’ll listen to her purrs, the shut eyes. And I’ll wonder what I’m doing, mimicking This strange, alien confidence. |
Backyard Brain
I am treed in by magenta bark and the thousand, thousand Sparkling silver leaves. All the outrunnings of gladness and Telling, telling, the undergrowth of sixteen years And the roots that branch through my synapses And neural closets. It is true that we pool upon the streams of our bodies, the sailors That float through our bloodstream and heart and carry these worlds to our heads. I can only up, up, up. I can only stretch my hand, take a leaf, run with whatever’s written on it. The roots that tale these stories through our bodies, The branches pushing on the edges of what I can imagine. And it grows. |
The rain falls down upon my matted hair;
It washes from the dirt my fingerprints. My little sister calls me from porch stairs; “Open this!” She waves a peppermint. The candy is still wrapped in cellophane, Stuck to her light blue jeans, a tuft of lint. In memory, my sister’s just the same; Her long black hair gleams wetly through the gray. Her doll’s in hand (don’t quite recall its name). Now tall and grown, and living far away, Her smaller form is saved in memory; Like when she kissed my cheek and said, “Goodnight.” |
Sandalwood
The summers in Spain are creatures, Cows, Whose breath rolls over the landscape with slow stillness. In the streets of Cordoba, underneath the rustic Flowers and Vines and Awnings, We come upon a tourist shop, the three of us, all women; Aunt, mother, daughter. I bought a fan, a lovely thing Of sandalwood, light and airy with a little Silken tassel at the end. A peacock, it spread its tail proudly, Strutting back and forth with the careless flick of my wrist in the sun. My mom would ‘ooh’ and ‘aah’ at the apartments That looked more like dignified Victorianese apartments, Nothing like the sleepy things you’d find in Shadyside, brick and tired, faded brown. They viewed the freshly-killed rabbits, still furry and sleepy-looking, With something like indifference in the lazy siesta hours. They wondered at my anger, my utter depression At seeing these creatures still clinging to their fur, even in death looking just asleep. My mother didn’t understand. The sandalwood fan spreads its scent across us, even In the windless, hot bovine’s breath of a Spanish summer; It diffused through the air, builds a wall between us, Suffocates me with exotic scents that push me forward and away from here. |
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