Whittle a Safe House in a Noble Tree
Dad,
It’s a real world
out there, you say.
Fear, as only a parent can feel.
Old man,
your world’s real too,
only it spins inside your head,
teeters and smashes, sloshes
in watery dreams turned hard,
rearranges itself every day —
polychromes
played in reverse.
Every time, a frame goes missing.
Is it not enough
that I, soon enough, must
negotiate fields in which
land mines smolder
in expectant slumber?
The real world.
We should ask a cook
Who must rinse and chop,
only sample,
never gorge on his master’s menus.
Or a gardener
consumed by multicolored
demands of a dominatrix
who, in turn,
chews on animal skin,
like an Eskimo,
to make for herself
a skinny ensemble
— check out her teeth,
like pits in a corncob —
its a lifetime’s work, truly.
Or a boy with inky hair
suffused with Mediterranean blue.
A refugee or fugitive, you see,
who didn’t see
the real world coming at him.
Purveyors of lentils and onions.
We must ask them too.
Thought
is not allowed
in the world of woodpeckers.
It’s all instinct.
Rat-tat-tatting away at noble trees.
They simply know
they’re like us —
let me in, let me in, let me in.
Shattering beaks.
For what reason?
In your opinion,
to whittle a safe house,
but I say,
let us allow ourselves a small
measure of mystery.
Real worlds.
The vise of a halter. Blinkers.
Boil him
down for glue,
he’s eating us into destitution.
The wonderful
world of a child bred to beg and
shall we include,
by your permission,
the world, the real
real world of solitary
confinement?
Where every day is every day,
a day without end,
a day that eats night
that coughs up another day…
If you mean to strike terror
in my heart, then say it like it is.
Put it thus:
You’ll starve if you don’t
learn how to beg
like a child bred to beg.
You’ll drown
an unnamed refugee,
flight might
become imminent,
better learn how to swim.
Even
if you can’t fly
as woodpeckers can,
just,
just hone the underrated
skill of patience
which comes naturally to donkeys,
known for their virtue,
but not to us.
Rat-a-tat-tat
away at petrified wood.
But I’m told the real world has fireflies too.
Electricity shortages
are of little concern
once you realize
the importance of inner light.
As no doubt,
your servant will tell you.
To the sound of trumpets
and television,
welcome to the real world
of realpolitik where
nothing changes
except soiled silk bedsheets.
While I can, old man,
let me be human.
Where I wait. Where I breathe.
Where I may or may not
learn to beg
like a child bred to beg.
Mine is a real world too.
Farida Haque
James M. Ridgway, Jr. Jeff Suwak Jef Littlejohn WysWoman (Jean Kennerson) Jk Mansi anna breslin Anneyé Blanco Zev E. E. Scott Alighieri@
