I Am Swiss

I 
 
To be touched by the finger 
 
Of tinsel and my son's 
 
Hand! That is godly, surely. 
 
To birth potential wives 
 
For my husband; husbands 
 
For his wife! To not bother 
 
The union with a sterile knife. 
 
I will see to it he is set with 
 
Eyes blue and bleach-blond hair. 
 
The very sound of his breath 
 
Kissing a candlewick will 
 
Surely cue a stifled giggle 
 
Of anticipation! This 
 
Is not a muzzled day. 
 
Orion claps to Nike's beat. 
 
The clouds leave chalk. 
 
Soon will it shower a rip 
 
Of Krishnan flowers and 
 
I will become a holy blue, 
 
A shimmering body born 
 
Of black serpent ink 
 
And crystal river water. 
 
I will have beheaded the snake. 
 
And set about nurturing 
 
My own into adulthood. 
 
 
II 
 
 
The fat drum beat 
 
Is as spoiled warm cantaloupe 
 
And though I think woollen shoes 
 
And wooden bed, a baby 
 
With a monkey's head; 
 
A bruised cry of fear 
 
Will keep the day for 
 
Memory's ear. 
 
I will augment 
 
Like a pig in a pickle jar, 
 
I am sure of it. I will 
 
Fix my own lid. 
 
Stillborn, of bloated 
 
Ignorance and rubber skin. 
 
I will damn the course 
 
I am given, and refuse to 
 
Wake in morning and 
 
Be sung to sleep at night. 
 
As will my child, I guarantee. 
 
I will bosom a black 
 
Photograph with the 
 
Head torn from it; 
 
Tie it to my shoelaces. 
 
I will not hold it, though 
 
To wrap a parcel tightly 
 
Is not a crime in winter. 
 
To let it slip is accidental. 
 
To feed a snake 
 
Is to have been assigned 
 
An air of resignation. 
 
 
III 
 
 
A clock ticks slow. I can feel it. 
 
Soon it will take its place, 
 
A scream slapped and hung 
 
Against the elements. 
 
No longer can I fondle it 
 
To tiny washable pieces 
 
With a coat hanger. 
 
I cannot baptize it in cola. 
 
Do I dare an African practice? 
 
A burrow in the garden? 
 
I shall line it with down 
 
And white powder, 
 
And place a rock atop of it. 
 
I will indulge a cigarette, 
 
Hear a bastard laugh 
 
From underfoot, 
 
And set as keeper 
 
A creature for 
 
My baby's head, 
 
To lick his hair 
 
And reinvent him vermin.

 

Copyright © 2002 by Milan Magan

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This Little Well

In this little well, refuse is skinned to the nines and tens: 
 
In this little well, a line of tar marks the trail. 
 
In this little well, skin is worth thousands upon thousands of words: 
 
In this little well, Cupid slung an arrow dipped in poison. 
 
 
In this little well, dancing elves are asphyxiated: 
 
In this little well, hair is swept and revered. 
 
In this little well, bodies are leeched for their minerals: 
 
In this little well, I have made a home for myself. 
 
 
In this little well, laughs are made of white cement: 
 
In this little well, lungs are open for licks and tongues. 
 
In this little well in which I dwell, buttercups are bullets: 
 
In this little well, anaesthetic comes at a cost. 
 
 
In this little well, black eye and a face indented; 
 
In this little well, I will feast on scraps thrown from you. 
 
In this little well, garnering praise, a garlanded prize 
 
Waits at the base of a rotting tree; flickering twitter, it waits for  
me.

 

Copyright © 2002 by Milan Magan

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