January 1, 2011 / mascara / 0 Comments
Born in Warsaw, Poland, Zuzanna Nitecka left her home country in June 2008 to seek inspiration under the palm trees of Spain. Her greatest inspiration is the magical world of Richard Brautigan’s imagination. She is currently living in Madrid, writing, wandering around at night and making friends with struggling musicians. And teaching English in her free time.
After
You get on the train at 6:45 giving off waves of afterlove frequency.
There is a glow under your skin as if you had dozens of very small Christmas candles in your belly. You stand out against the cold fluorescence of the metro. Eyes turn to follow you as you pass by in search of a seat. You sit down, oblivious: perhaps you pull out a book from you bag or sip tea from a green thermos. All the while. The car gradually fills up with your mind that is aglow.
Loss
There’s nothing more sadly sensual than after-rain pine trees stuck into earth like paper umbrellas dropped into a cocktail glass.
As I walk under dripping branches, thinking my thoughts, I see a black scarf on the concrete path before me. It belonged to a woman. She wears heels and perfect make up. Sweet perfume. She is afraid of growing old. The wind must have untangled the scarf from her shoulders. She walked all the way home from this little park with the ghost of the scarf wrapped around her neck. Before she realized it was gone.
Concert
The clanking of pots and pans drowns out the music (a sonata of practicality). She brings out the dinner: rice in asparagus sauce. As the music begins, she will fidget. Thinking about plates that should be washed; drinks to be served; stains on the tablecloth. Meanwhile, the musician plays
as if he was taking revenge on the world. To avenge some terrible grievance. Then. The trembling of strings announces it’s over. In the silence
that comes, a question: “Will you help me clean up?”
(…)
The demon of disturbed sleep
broods
in bright daylight
(…)
A hudred years ago, it was 7 am. Beds rocked softly
on cold floor like empty peanut shells.
January 1, 2011 / mascara / 0 Comments
Bob Hart is the author of two books of poems Acrobat and Lightly in the Good of Day (Bench Press). He grew up in Harlem, on 145th Street, 142nd Street and 158th Street. Her served in the army from 1952 to 1954, and was stationed in Germany during the Korean war. Now he works for a mail sorting company in Midtown West, and lives in Brooklyn.
In A Guitar
I like the anger in a guitar—
it doesn’t need a reason;
no need to gain back face, having lost none.
Its strings smell no insults;
it is mouth, not ears.
I like the sorrow spilled from its hole
whose hollow has lost nothing;
rejoices in its own hollow being
(devoid of void, though massless),
empty bowl of tongues.
I crave the tremored fear of its strings
which riverrun, but nowhere.
Five nerves take turn to shiver their speaking:
our doomless deathless dying
by the blood guitar.
Although it drums an air of its own
it can drum one into battle!
It has no politics but it pushes—
or pulls like blind horse running
as its path shines black!
Man, Can They!
Man those girls can laugh!
I mean they really splatter cheer into the air.
They let go. Oh boy they let go.
Can their chairs hold them, tables contain them?
They should ride horses
jump cloudhigh fences; they should, they should
run beside the running deer; do
Phoenician somersault on bulls, then
leap amid spectators in the stands.
Make way for those laughing girls—
wave banners for them; fly the flags.
Spare no colors. Spare no winds. Let the light
burst its sides with brightness.
Let the heavy turtles of the galaxies
declare a rabbit holiday.
It’s catching. Help me hold my sides.
This is too lively for
the likes of any gravity-coherent solid thing.
January 1, 2011 / mascara / 0 Comments
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Usha Akella has authored two books of poetry. She is the founder of the Poetry Caravan, an organization that provides free readings and workshops to the disadvantaged. She has read at various international festivals and her work is upcoming in the HarperCollins Anthology of Indian English Poetry. She lives in Austin, Texas, USA.
Hymn To Shiva
Here take this bitterness
Hold it in the cup of your throat
For all the lives I may live
Call yourself Neelkant
So I may be sweet as a lyre.
Take these desires
Wreathe them on your body
That I may be a temple
Empty as eternity.
Here take the sight of this world
So I might close my eyes in ecstasy.
Take this, my anger
Seat yourself on it
Your own compassion
whirling white as the milky way
Frothing in your matted locks.
Let it overflow
Drench me.
Tomorrow’s poem
I want to begin a poem
without saying “I want,”
Wait like a page or
undone button in the dust,
A poem that comes like
a blighted ovum,
fading as a body fades into a shroud.
inside, demons are persistent like
worker bees, it is not the unwillingness
to surrender
to the divine but
the unwillingness to
give up on the human,
I want the one as the many.
All that is good is in small quantities,
Like the hidden flames in flowers,
Like eyes which are magic lamps
holding the universe,
All that ties us is invisible,
trailing umbilical chords unsevered.
They tell me prophets are missing from caves,
their words floating in bottles in old seas,
and old cities surface like prophecies,
and someone is a silent incarnation working like yeast,
for some this is enough,
here, I don’t know that face in the mirror,
a ship afar, the sails down.
Botero’s Doves
Can there be a dove of peace,
And a dove of war?
Can a country stick out two tongues?
Its wounds bloom like roses
Or explode as rifle fire,
Can there be two dawns?
A dawn of the sun,
A dawn of the night.
Humans, we have two hearts,
One black and one white,
But to see it so exposed…
Botero’s doves are installed in the plaza of church of St. Antonio. Botero donated the dove of peace to the city of Medellin which was subsequently bombed. He donated another on condition that the former dove remain as it is. The two doves stand next to each other, a chilling symbol of Medellin’s history.
January 1, 2011 / mascara / 0 Comments
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Gina Forberg is an elementary school teacher in Westport, Connecticut. She received her Masters of Arts Creative Writing at Manhattanville College. Her work has appeared in The New Delta Review, The Mochila Review, Slant Magazine, Blueline Press, Squaw Valley Review, Anderbo Magazine,
The Turn
Maybe there is gratitude in the map
quest that steered us wrong, that allowed
us to meet our mate when we missed
the church, that prevented the accident
at mile 54. Perhaps we found our dream
house, a new favourite restaurant.
What if we returned to the simple scribble
on the page, the loops, curves of a writer’s
hand, the elegance of slant, the enjambment
of words. I’d like to believe he is
intrigued by the white space, cares less
about cross-outs, erasures, knows not
what direction he is going. For us
to worry about diction, syntax,
punctuation is to misplace the emotion,
to resist the turn we need to make.
The starts, the stops are what drive
our engines. The setting aside restores us.
If we are willing to lose ourselves
in the extra miles we may be surprised
at our destination. If we are lucky,
a reader will follow close behind.
The Conditions and Events of The Winter Olympic Games as a Metaphor for Sex
i.
Snowfall must be sufficient enough to guarantee beyond question a heavy cover
during the prelimary practice.
ii.
Altitude should be sufficient to guarantee snowfall without unduly affecting the
respiration of the athletes.
iii.
If you are going to be a skiier choose freestyle. It has no restrictions.
iv.
It is important for a woman to use her hips during the turns in the downhill slalom.
v.
In classic freestyle, skiiers use the traditional straight-striding technique and do not
deviate from the parallel tracks.
vi.
The word “hockey” derives itself from the French word “hocquet” which refers to
crooked stick.
vii.
Skaters must wear rubber caps to reduce the amount of wind resistance.
viii.
In the luge there is no rule that says a doubles team must comprise members of the
same sex, but traditionally, men have ridden together with the larger man lying on top
for a more aerodynamic fit.
ix.
The luge event is designed to reward consistency, endurance and ability to withstand
pressure, particularly on the second day.
x.
In curling, the stone moves toward a series of concentric circles. The object is to get
the stone as close to the centre of the circle as possible.
xi.
In the biathalon relay each team member has two firing sequences and is allowed
three extra bullets to hit five targets.
xii.
Location changes every two years so make sure the conditions are conducive to your
specified event.
January 1, 2011 / mascara / 0 Comments
Born and brought up in Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala, Usha Kishore now lives on the Isle of Man, UK. Usha was educated at the University of Kerala (India), Sheffield Hallam University (UK) and Canterbury Christ Church University College (UK). After having taught for some time in the British Secondary and Tertiary Sector, Usha now teaches English at a Secondary School on the Isle of Man . Usha’s poetry has been published in magazines and anthologies in the US, UK, Ireland, Europe, New Zealand, India and online. Some of her poems have been translated into German, Spanish and Gujurati. She also writes critical articles for international magazines. Her poetry has won prizes in UK competitions and has been part of national and international projects. Her short story “Dowry” was shortlisted for a major UK literary award, the Asham Award (UK) in 2005. Usha also translates from Sanskrit; her translations of Sankara have been published in India, the UK and USA. She is now translating Kalidasa’s Ritusamhara, in conjunction with Dr.Rati Saxena of Shree Shankaracharya Sanskrit University, Kalady, Kerala.
For The Dynasty Of the Moon
(after reading Kylie Rose)
For the dynasty of the Moon,
A hundred thousand lives lost
in verse…
Metres of battle scanned into
Krishna’s eternal song –
A stoic sage chronicles the
end of his own dynasty –
a patient elephant God scribes
into eternity…
In the Vela kali of yesteryear’s
setting sun, I hear the battle cry of
the lone sun-warrior, who challenges
the house of the moon.
Panchavadya notes echo
into twilight memory –
The raga hindola, mourning the death
of the lone young warrior killed
by deceit. Arjuna takes a terrible
vow and Krishna smiles in the
bugles of Panchajanya, while a
lone monkey mediates on the flagstaff…
From the carvings on the temple wall,
she, with unravelled hair, calls out to my
soul from stone – screaming revenge for
the disrobing of womanhood….
Krishna’s eternal song – The Hindu “Gita”
Vela kali – Temple art (dance) form
Panchavadya – five instruments played together
Hindola – a raga in Carnatic music
Panchajanya – the conch of Krishna (The poem is based on the Hindu epic Mahabharatha)
Nikhat’s Mother
She stands out in a crowd –
Her shocking pink
dupatta carrying
songs from the Gilgit –
She is without
a language here –
I am her interpreter –
translating her
language, her culture
her colour–
She does not understand
why Nikhat has to attend
school daily – Nikhat is at
her sister-in law’s cousin’s
wedding in Bradford–
Today is Mehendi, tomorrow
is the Nikah and Nikhat will
not be in school for a week –
She does not understand
why Nikhat is harassed
by school bobbies –
Bibi jaan, taleem lena,
dena hamara mamla hai –
Ye gore kyun dakl dete
hain?
Biting back half-an hour’s
exasperated laughter,
I interpret to the irate
Head of School:
Nikhat’s mother does not
understand the concept
of compulsory education…
Mehendi – The henna festival before marriage
dupatta – veil/scarf
Nikah – Muslim Wedding ceremony
The Urdu dialogue can be translated as: Madam, education is our personal business, why are the whites interfering?
Gilgit – a city in Northern Pakistan and is the gateway to the Karakoram ranges of the Himalayas.
January 1, 2011 / mascara / 0 Comments
Peter J. Dellolio has published critical essays on art and film, fiction, poetry, and drama. His poetry and fiction have appeared in various literary magazines, including Antenna, Aero-Sun Times, Bogus Review, and Pen-Dec Press. Through 1998, Peter was a contributing editor for NYArts Magazine. Currently he is working on a critical study of the films of Alfred Hitchcock. He is a graduate of New York University, 1978, and holds a B.A. in cinema and literature.
Ineluctabilis
I will leave the building with her. We will walk together for several blocks. It will be night. Before we leave, she will say something to me, she will make some remark about the tone of my voice. When I speak to her, the tone of my voice will have a certain effect on her, and so she will make this comment. As we leave the lobby of the building, I will notice that its beige marble walls have a faint glow. This will be the effect of a street lamp shining through the glass doors of the entryway.
I am not speaking to her at this moment. I am going to speak to her.
After turning my head to the right, I will lower my eyes and see the bicycle that she will be wheeling alongside her. I will notice its two wheels. She will have painted the black rubber blue, for aesthetic effect. The black night will be filled with cool air. The blue wheels will appear many shades darker than they are. This will be caused by the numerous shadows the night will have cast upon us. The cool air will make me feel carefree and somber at the same time. This association between atmosphere and emotion will be unconventional. For the darkness of the night will give me a carefree feeling, and the coolness of the air will give me a somber feeling. She will glance at me from time to time. These glances will be unrelated to the movement of the bicycle she will be pushing alongside her, except of course for the contrast between the dark circular wheels and her bright round eyes, but I will not notice this contrast.
She is not glancing at me at this moment. She is going to glance at me.
It will not be late, but the streets will be empty. It will be quiet. For the most part, the only sound to be heard will be the softly squeaking wheels of the bicycle. I will have forgotten the sound of the door that will slam shut as we leave the lobby of the building. However, she will remember this slamming sound, because while we are walking, she will glance at the dim, empty doorway of an abandoned building, making a remark about how unusually quiet it is. I will feel particularly lighthearted if I too look into this doorway. The moment she turns to look towards it, a zephyr will lightly blow across my face, and thus I will suddenly be arrested by a desolate feeling. A huge flag will be attached to a pole protruding from the window of a building across the street. It will wave slowly and gently in the night air. By the time I notice this flag, we will have passed the abandoned building with its caliginous entrance, but the flag will continue to wave in the breeze.
It is not waving at this moment. It is going to wave.
When we reach the subway station, we will part. I will enter the station and board a train. She will begin to ride the bicycle home. Before we part, we will stop for a few moments by the station entrance. It will be located on the corner of a main avenue surrounded by traffic and pedestrians, and so the silence of the night will be gradually filled with the noisy sounds of traffic and talking people. From below us, in the underground tunnel, a chaos of vibrations, created by the parallel trajectories of many speeding trains, will suddenly emerge, and at this moment I will glance at the two blue wheels of the bicycle. She will be looking at me when I glance at the shadowy wheels. Her head will be positioned at an angle that will allow the whites of her eyes to shine very brightly. By this point, the air will be still, and the flag we will have passed will hang down limply, no longer waving. I will not see the flag in this state of immobility, but I will be reminded of its waving when I lift my head from the wheels and look at her. This reminder will be triggered by a cool gust of air, lightly blowing across my face just as I lift my head from the wheels in order to look at her. At this moment, a passenger sitting in one of the passing trains will glance at a public service poster for the homeless, displaying a photograph of a derelict building, glowing in the moonlight. When I lift my head and look at her, we will say goodnight. As I turn away from her and start walking in the opposite direction, I will glimpse a gleaming yellow taxi speeding behind her head from left to right. The streetlamp will no longer shine directly upon the marble walls inside the lobby; the glow of the taxi will diminish considerably as it falls under the shadow of a newsstand in a futile attempt to miss her. This attempt will indeed fail as the cab strikes her fatally during the moment she closes her eyes while waiting for the traffic light to change.
She is not closing her eyes at this moment. She is going to close them.
January 1, 2011 / mascara / 0 Comments
Nandini Dhar’s poems have appeared or is forthcoming in Muse India, Kritya and Sheher:Urban Poetry by Indian Women. Nandini grew up in Kolkata, India, finished her M.A. In Comparative Literature from University of Oregon, and is now a Ph.D. Candidate in Comparative Literature at University of Texas at Austin.
inking the hyacinth
knowing how to make
the rosemary smell
like thyme is not enough.
her brother told her. with a touch on her forehead,
which, he thought, would reassure her. if she really
wants to be the kabiyali she thinks she is, she must
learn how to make pearls from inside her spleen.
and that, he said,
requires perseverance.
amongst other things.
not yet ready to give up, she spent days
sorting through spine splintering brick.
looking for the right kind of dust.
holding the specks
against the sun with
her three fingers.
the other two craving for shades of green
she had never hoped to touch. then, once
she had them all, she swallowed the dust
drops. one by one. every one of them. not
noticing that her forehead now bears five
glowing blue spots.
exactly on the places where
her brother’s fingers touched her
cantaloupe skin.
probably because, she wasn’t feeling anything there.
almost in the same way the leprosy skin fails to notice
the prick
of a pin
on itself.
in the bread-colored desolation of a machete moon,
she had to admit that her brother did not want her
to pull out her eyes one after the other and serve them
to him in crystal jars.
marinated in lemon juice, rock
salt and cinnamon flakes. neither
does he want her to spend the day
sweeping speckless the ground under the guava tree
but, being just back from turning an oyster princess
into a porcelain-doll, he believes his assurances can
turn all silhouettes into full-blown
statuettes. she, on the other hand,
would rather scratch the oyster-shells
hard and let the blood dry under her broken nails.
blood, when allowed to harbor chaos on its own, can
become a bladed verb which will pierce a bone right
in two. yet, eager to regale in his desperate certitude,
she gave up the bristles,
the blood,
bones and the blades.
for thirteen years, three months and three days, she made
the hyacinth leaf her bed. fed on air. and woke up every
morning to throw up spit the color of deep brown earth
and sunlit scar tissue. which she would then use to sculpt
rabbits, deer, sparrows and hedge-hogs.
and once she crawled back
into her hyacinth bed, her brother
would break them all. one by one
too ordinary, he would say, with an expert frown. the morning
she spat the pearl out, her brother held her head, picked up
the pearl stone, and after looking at it for two whole minutes
through purple tinted field glass, said, sissy dear, you are yet to learn
the art of madness wild. it was then that she smashed
the pearl on the rock. collected pieces
too pink. and wrapped them up in
her rainbow-skinned scarf, walking off
towards her hyacinth-shield. needless to say, no one
saw her ever again. Nothing much happened to her
brother either. only the white hyacinth flowers, in
the lake, turned fluorescent violet. and on full-moon
nights, they bleed red. routinely. ritually. without fail.
irreconcilable:lines for virginia mem-sahib
My aunt, Mary Beton, I must tell you, died by a fall from her horse when she was riding out to take the air in Bombay. […] A solicitor’s letter fell into the post-box and when I opened it I found that she had left me five hundred pounds a year for ever.
A Room of One’s Own, Virginia Woolf
since 1835,
when abhinavagupta, shudrak, and rumi were forced to sit
tight-packed on a single shelf, leaving the rest of the world to alphabets
that jumped out of ships and judge-sahib’s wigs, textbooks have perfected
the art of making crazed scribbling-chicks look tame.
tame enough to be tapestried into buttercream muslin pillow cases
tame enough to be painted on jasmine-white schoolroom walls
tame enough to be talked about without once referring
to that conch-shaped nose of yours
the look in your eyes, which says,
i am perfectly capable of drenching myself
in the purple-blue of a drizzly-day sun, claiming, the sun
belongs to me and only to me, and can,therefore,
be swept away, into the abyss of my purse,
just like the peacock-feather of my hat.
my tongue was daffodil-bruised.
the little man made me peel oranges
for eight hours every day, my ass on wood,
the tip of his beard brushing off the last traces
of elizabeth, mary, all those poet-girls who walked straight
into the smoke-filled coffeehouses, corsets tightly folded into eight
in their armpits.
hell,i didn’t know that even sammy dear
had waved off the sugar-bowl with the back of his left hand while pouring
out a full dose of white guilt in the wings of albatross
so, i held on to your lonely sun. although,
for my own sake,i would have rather opened my lips,
tongue,limbs and nipples to the storm. yet, there are days,
when i craved for a share of your sun, with bleeding fingernails
and all.
you were running,
your skirt hitched up to your knees,
from the very old man
with scissors for clipping the wings of women
who build abodes other than the ones thrust upon them
by holy matrimony.
i was running right beside you,
trying to figure out the color of the thread of your hems.
i would have given anything for them to be the shade
of clotted blood, rust, deep-fried, well-breaded mutton cutlet.
and there was mary beton.
bombay.the horse. the fall.
five hundred pounds a year. a room ensured.
damn it, girl, i couldn’t care less
for your aunt beton or her fall. but I did care
for the five hundred pounds, which, had they
stayed behind, could have been used to build
my own room. Or, for that matter,
one for my sister
one for my cousin
one for my aunt
one for my mother
one each for my father, brother and uncle.
ginny dearest, i don’t trust you
with the carving of my wood.
for all practical purposes, you’re just
another mem-sahib.
nothing more.
January 1, 2011 / mascara / 0 Comments
Born in New Delhi, Aseem Kaul now lives in Minneapolis, where he is Assistant Professor of Strategy at the University of Minnesota. Aseem’s poems have appeared in The Cortland Review, nthposition, Rhino and Softblow, among others, and a collection of his short fiction, titled études, was published in 2009.
Ghalib
Tonight, you recite Ghalib from memory;
because poetry, like blood, must come from the heart.
Taking a sip from your glass after every couplet,
the scotch rhyming perfectly the melancholy on your tongue.
You cling to nostalgia like an empty mirror,
to the scent of this language that withers like flowers.
You gather pain the way the sky gathers,
pinprick by slow pinprick, the stars.
Somewhere between question and answer
the feeling dissolves. The need to sing becomes
the struggle not to fall. And you arrange
your ruins into one last gesture,
knowing the Beloved will not heed your call,
knowing she will prove false, like God, or the Moon.
***
You write to me from Delhi,
speak of summer blackouts,
of how, disconnected from the machines,
you thought of Ghalib –
the bomb blast of his grief
leaving the city in ruins –
and how the history of loss
could be written on a feather.
When the power returned
you turned the lights off,
lit a candle to see
the darkness a little better,
and still the shadows
were not the same.
***
“Madness”, Ghalib writes, “is never without its reasons;
surely there is something that the veil is meant to protect”
And I think of all the years we have spent
listening to these ghazals, the verses
falling from our lips like pieces of exquisite glass
from broken window frames;
shaping our mouths to his sadness,
unbuttoning our collars to let his words stain
the rubbed language of our songs.
What have we been hiding from,
my friend? What longing is this inside us
that we disguise in a dead man’s clothes?
Autumn Cannibalism
It’s a painting about war:
about civil war and the way
hatred makes us all family,
the way two wrongs will feed
on each other till they both
taste about the same.
So it has to be wrong
that it reminds me of us
eating ice cream in the park
that October, reminds
me how you pressed
your lips to mine
for one squeezed instant,
how your tongue curled
cold in my mouth,
how I pulled away surprised;
and how, in that moment,
spoon still in hand,
you looked good enough to eat.
Static
There are nights beyond voices;
nights when all you listen to
is the static on the radio,
its sound of in-betweens;
haunted by disturbance,
by the endless galaxy
of daydream whose pipes and whistles
remind you how long it’s been
since you danced with a stranger,
or stayed up till dawn
nursing heartbreak
with the volume turned down low.
You wanted something more –
a song you knew the words to,
the sound of human speech –
but are content to sit
by this fire of crackling frequencies,
the hiss of its sympathy
like the echo of some long-ago
Babel, a clamour of stations
that murmurs the air; displacements
you prefer to the silence
they inhabit, if only for the sense
that there is someone else out there.
January 1, 2011 / mascara / 0 Comments
Dean Gui is first generation Hong Kong born, having left when he was fifteen from King George V School to finish high school in Saint John’s School of Alberta, Canada, an all-boys’ Anglican boarding school. He spent the next twenty years living in the USA, the first sixteen of those in Chicago, and the last four in California. Getting back into academia was the last thing on his list of things to do after a BA in English and an M.A. in Creative Writing to follow from the University of Illinois… but through the guidance and wisdom of one friend in particular, he taught his first high school English class in 2000. Since then, Dean has made a career of teaching. His poetry has been published in small press around North America, in magazines such as Arizona State Poetry, Innisfree, and Worm Feast.
King
the perfect princess
took off her tiara this morning
after a fierce night
bumping with celeda and the queens
peeling off a cat suit
claws and lashes
she plopped down onto her loo
a darling cigarette between dry lips
bent-over churning inside
exhaling into a black and white
photo album cracked open on the floor
full of black and blue memories
of a little boy
with little girl dreams
pink wallpaper
golden lips
skin like powdered lilies
wishing everyone away
and when the wigless, crownless
princess scratched her balls
clicked her heels three times
and whispered
“there’s no place…”
“there’s no place…”
“there’s no place…”
the sun suddenly disappeared
shadows laid out another line
and with three snorts, starlight, and stardom in her eyes
quasi life had begun again
Eurasian
dragon eyes
durians
guavas
sister you are missed
sinigang
feijoada
lang mein
mother you are missed
peppered gizzard
boiled pig’s blood
fried fermented tofu
grandmother you are missed
hamburger helper
ramen noodles
uncle ben’s
dinners are just not the same
anymore
January 1, 2011 / mascara / 0 Comments
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A dual Australian-Irish citizen, Nathanael O’Reilly was born in Warrnambool and raised in Ballarat, Brisbane and Shepparton. He has lived in England, Ireland, Germany, Ukraine and the United States, where he currently resides. His poetry has appeared in numerous journals, including Antipodes, Harvest, Windmills, LiNQ, Postcolonial Text, Transnational Literature, Prosopisia, and Blackmail Press. He is the author of the chapbook Symptoms of Homesickness (Picaro Press, 2010).
Driving in Texas
I.
A woman pushes a baby
In a stroller down the centre
Of a busy four-lane highway
As traffic speeds by on either side.
II.
A black pick-up truck overloaded
With tools, bricks and buckets
Weaves in and out of its lane
On a narrow county road.
III.
Three African-Americans kneel
In the grass facing away from the road,
Their hands cuffed behind their backs
As cops search their Cadillac.
IV.
A helmetless motorcyclist wearing
Shorts and t-shirt hurtles down
The freeway at ninety miles per hour
Zigzagging through heavy traffic.
V.
Five white flower-adorned crosses
Ranging in descending order
From daddy-sized to baby-sized
Testify in the grass beside the highway.
VI.
A roadside canvas marquee bears
A hand painted sign proclaiming
Holy Spirit Revival
7:30 nightly 24/7 prayer
Too Young
We killed time at the empty skate park
In Matamata, where I pretended I had
A board, running up the quarterpipe
Chucking one-eighties, sliding along
Steel rails, simulating ollies and kickflips
While your mum toured hobbit holes.
Too young to be embarrassed,
You thought I was hilarious.
Worn out, we retired to a main street café
Where we drank chocolate milk and a latte
While sharing an Anzac biscuit,
Then drove until we found a playground.
You joined in with the Maori kids,
Too young to know or care about race
Or nationality, rolling down an embankment
Into a pile of crunchy June leaves
While I exchanged nods with the other dads.
When your mum returned from the tour
We took the narrow backroads in the rain
To Te Awamutu, hoping in vain to find
A monument to the Finns. We had to settle
For Waikato Draught at the Commercial Hotel.
You sipped lemonade, too young to understand
Why we cared about music from New Zealand.