Let’s not forget the greased pig,

how fast he gobbled down the dogs

and took off into the tall weeds

where the wedding went up in smoke.

Let’s not forget Basia, her singed

frock falling into the puddle at her feet

as the chimp cartwheeled from branch to branch,

pollen coating his fur as the kites stole

dolls out of the cribs—a thousand dolls

with pudgy faces floating over our blue avenues—

as the serendipitous surrenders gave way

to the oven bird’s mockery, and overabundant

ovaries delivered their eggs promptly

at 11 before the haze set in, before the bees

went on a rampage, and sunflowers lost their heads,

before the azaleas were born, before the stags flew

out of the stagnant pools, before the frogs

forged a new alliance with the snakes

and honey oozed from all our sullen places,

before the bankers absconded with the vaults,

before the wizened patriarchs sold off

cemetery plots of cyber space, before

all the books became bits

and fish bloated in underwater camps,

before the doves betrayed us with their white wings,

before the dolls began exploding

while waves roses higher and higher—

the ark sailing blind into the blaze.

 

 

 

“Make it go away,” she said.  I kissed her forehead, her skin clammy. I turned over my hat, pulling out a thousand silk scarves, all different colors, and tossing them in the air, where they floated. Out of the hat flew a white dove, landing on Julia’s lap. She lifted it toward her face, barely able to hold up her arms.  The dove disappeared, a single white feather clinging to her palms.

 

Next, two puppets tangoed in mid-air, ending their dance with a kiss. A Spanish Flamenco guitar player arose from the shadows and played, as a gypsy woman in a red dress took the stage. She raised her arms, pounding her feet and clicking the castanets in her hands, taunting the darkness.  Now Julia laughed aloud but the pain started again and tears streamed down her face. I brought her a glass of water and another pill, which she had difficulty swallowing. Then the water became hot brandy with a little nutmeg. “Sip this.”

 

I set in motion four small fiery wheels, spinning like little worlds. Julia smiled and wrapped herself in the afghan as she sat on the couch. She was frail and tired looking, but her brown eyes still had a spark in them. A blue smoke rose from the fiery wheels. The air grew warm, though Julia shivered. With my index finger, I caused the wheels to revolve in a circle like a flaming carousel. “It’s beautiful,” Julia whispered. When she coughed, I waved my hand until the flames went out, the wheels dissolving into blue smoke, the blue smoke vanishing into my handkerchief.

 

 

I should have ended on this—

the door closing, a last

note sounded, a shadow,

 

dust in the corner, the greasy

parrot singing my praises.

I should have let it go with a wisecrack,

 

a sardonic grin for you

to mull over while the room

shook and the chimes clanged

 

and the windows awoke to the grisly light,

voles running for cover,

while CNN played a new

 

tape of Bin Laden

and the President winked at the press,

announcing the success

 

rate of his war on evil. I should have

let go, salt to the wind,

mud in your eye…