Wednesday, April 10, 2013

from “The Escapist,” by Jennifer Mackenzie (forthcoming in issue 22)

Or perhaps it is you who is painting me as an owl
my head still separated from my child’s body
in secret like a knife stuck under a wife’s pillow

& who shall be intruded upon
by a jasmine picker. The flame she said
is quite beautiful. Moves like breathing

between me & everyone else
such terror at the casual

guttering of any form. In this heat
helicopter gunships hover to keep us cool
You blow on my face, we scrawl warm

alphabet still in rootball. One head reading
political science (“Theories of the future”)
& the other “Life with Picasso”

Then his miserable luck, a he-goat
he called she was taken away
by gypsies & he was left calling

Where’s my little white she-
goat that I love so much?

Tiny orange crayons scatter blazing
from the sky, lit seed-darts star
doubt bright or dark

We will blossom coolly
coolly to author Thieves of the Future

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