September poetry project week 4 2007
Poem 22. Global Mala
I dedicate my practice and my poem
to the girl on the mat beside me.
She squirrelled her glasses in a sneaker,
and sat straight and erect beside me,
Her hands clasped in her lap.
Her ribs swelling and collapsing with each breath.
She wore a jap mala on her wrist
which I looked at on every Chaturanga Dandasana,
as if counting the beads,
the 108 beads,
one for every sun salutation.
I didn't count after six, but I tried.
Poem 23. Fishbowl
The fish swim outside my window,
big lips kissing the clouds, fins swaying backwards and forwards,
tails navigating left and right.
I live in a castle with a drawbridge that opens and closes,
powered by a motor that lies
beneath the road, beneath the sewer pipes.
The bravest fish swims in my window,
an angelfish,
it doesn't notice me lying on my bed,
but swims out the door,
and out the drawbridge,
back to the air.
Poem 24. Pearl
If you would give me a chance, I would pry open your heart,
And show you that there are pearls inside.
Yellow, pink slightly irregular because they are real,
not cultured, not molded, not made on a wheel.
The sand caught inside your heart scratched
the softest parts and bled you from within.
You refuse to open now, so all I can do is hold you in my hand,
closed as you are.
©Rachel Levine 2007
Poem 25. Reasonable Accomodation
She's walking on St. Catherine street,
wearing the full enchilada,
A black ghost among us,
No skin feels the air except for what breaches at the eye slit.
She's looking at you, studying you,
squinting in there, with two hateful eyes,
judging your shamelss clothing, your disrespect, your ignorance of
Allah,
feeling sorry for your situation because if you knew better,
you'd be more like her.
You can hear her muttering about the hateful, Bush lovers.
Walking around just so she can confirm just how depraved and desparate you are,
thinking about how she'd like to kill the vermin around her,
and you are somewhere lower than rat, but perhaps above Jew.
She'd take the caraving knife she keeps at home to
cut lamb, and filet your muscles from your bone,
and throw you to a dog, so it can crack your bones, and suck the marrow.
She's like to drown your children in the river,
put them in a sack like unwanted kittens,
with a brick, as they bubble below the surface, lungs bursting with water.
That's what she's thinking,
she's thinking the world has too many of them,
and it'd be so much easier if they just killed you all.
You'd be better off anyway,
out of your misery.
Or maybe she's thinking about whether she has a lemon in the fridge and if her children did their homework.
Poem 26. My angel’s gone to vegas I'm pretty sure my angel's gone to Vegas, and she took West Jet. Vegas, baby, Vegas. She's going to try her luck at black jack, Because everyone knows that slots have the worst odds. She's an angel, so she can't really loses, unless she wants too. But she's way off duty, not comforting anyone around her for a change. Sitting at the table like she means it, like she's got to focus or she might lose. She's between a man and a woman who don't know each other, but my angel will make sure by the end of the night they do. They're going to lose a lot of money, and it can't be all bad, or can it? At any rate, that's what angels do. She can't help working. They're plying my angel with free drinks, Good blue and foggy cocktails, She's getting kind of tipsy, and not so worried about if she wins or loses. Which is why it's so good to have an angel who whispers in your ear. ___ 27th is gone :( ___
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