CORPSE FLOWER
And when the farmer saw the giant flower
with smell like bad fish and bad sugar, he could not look away.
The purple skirt
of the bloom begged him to return.
And so he did—with a pail of water—and sang to it
and caressed it and swiped beetles away
from the blossom’s lip.
He even gave it a name and when the farmer
said the name out loud, the flower began to move—
then completely devoured him.
*
Villagers searched and searched for the farmer.
When they too stumbled upon the large blossom,
they decided to name it
after a beautiful jaguar
that once killed several children.
But this flower does not want
to be named. Does not want to be owned.
When the flower heard the name,
it stretched to the closest person
and ate her—
ate the name as well.
RUNAWAY DACHSHUNDS
CENTRAL KANSAS
No sign of lake or puddle for miles but: a speedboat left in a wheat field. This journey
is worth many fish. Two dachshunds meet at a rest stop and run away together into
the wheat. Where do they think they will go? Perhaps they want to travel to a land
full of soft neck meats and cheeses. Oceans of blue-sueded pillows. This journey is
worth many fish. And what of their former owners? What will comfort their eyes
shot through with thin blood? Who but the wheatbuds will hear their muffled wails?
WHILE I VACATION IN BANGOK, I RESPOND TO A STUDENT E-MAIL
ASKING WHY HE RECEIVED A ‘D’ IN CREATIVE WRITING
I do
a fingernail dance
at you.
COCOA DANCE
ST. LUCIA
You step on the cacao bean and all the shells shimmy
off like a slip. You polish each bean, some beans stick
between your third and fourth toes and still the air seethes
with parrot calls. You dance and dance for the cocoa cake
you need the cocoa cake and so you lift your hands above
your head a scarf on your neck like a wound happy
in the sun. The wound breathes open with each step.
You need to rub the seeds under your high arch, so smooth
and wet like the belly of a fish. Make these fish swim
the dirty river: step-splash-step. It’s funny now: you
with your hands still in the air, waving for balance
on top of this heap of beans. You semaphore a rescue
to a passing plane  there is no rescue from this dance.
When you come home, you tap your shoe against the wall:
nothing. But later that night you will swear you feel a shake
of beans between the sheets—even when you sleep alone.
WHEN THE MOTHER OF THE GREEDY BOY HAS ENOUGH
On the island of Negros there lived a widow
& her greedy boy. They could hardly afford meat
for the tinola & had to borrow waxy rice sacks to line the walls
of their home. The greedy boy slept in a nest of excelsior
& had aphids in his hair. A hen wrapped in his coat.
When he walked by the mirabelle tree, all the yellow
round fruits fell to the ground. The boy learned how
to hunt deer, pigs, & squawking labuyo & when he finally
brought one home (he saved all the very best pieces
for himself), he only gave claws & neckbones
to his mother. The next day she stopped
at a neighbor’s funeral. She bought the body.
She bought the body for the clothes
& left the body in the church. She wore
the body’s clothes (it had been so hot
so hot and the body was five days ripe) & waited
for her son to come home with his catch, give her only
some back bones & necky meat. When he came home & cooked for
her like that again oh my, she loved him, yes she did, oh my.
RIVER PHOENIX
(1970-1993)
I want to shake the hand of the blind policeman
who can recognize over three thousand thieves
just by their voices. But what if the thief
was a giraffe—the quietest animal on land?
Surely all the shredded acacia leaves would
point you or I in the right direction, but what
is the sound of hunger, no matter how spotty
the reach? In ancient Egypt, spoons were
shaped like fish—like splash and fin—
and maybe that is the sound we all listen
for. What is the sound of a young actor who
had eyes like a wise fish, who died
in the knife of a sidewalk? I still have
his old movies and can barely believe he is gone.
It’s a crime, really. Someone should follow
the trail of wild apricots. At least you might find
a sorry giraffe that just needs to stroll home.
THE CARCASS OF BEEF
after a painting with the same title by Chaim Soutine (1925)
As soon as I walk by the butcher shops with all manner of carcass in the window, I find
myself hurrying past. I have no idea why I do this. There is no pause to consider the length
of roast duck, the sweet drippy links of sausage. I can’t bring myself to look past the carcass
of beef to the young family inside. Where does the butcher’s daughter go to school? Where
is the stained sock? I know each morning she washes her hands with a steel spoon to get rid
of the garlic and penny stink. I was that girl. I washed just like her, ashamed of my father’s
cooking. Pleated skirts and grosgrain hair ribbons reeked of curry. I washed until my hands
were pink as meat. I wished so hard that I’d be lifted right out of my home, my block, up and over
all the cacti jabbed into the sky—I wished so hard this smell would vanish, and one day it did—
|
