Five Poems Con Leche y Sangre by Merilyn Jackson
SOMEWHAT AFTER THE MANNER OF CERTAIN GALILEANS
Don't call me Jesus
I hiss at him.
If I work the miracle
call me by my name.
Gruffly, he calls my name -
the smoky report of a gun -
until our feet begin
to sink beneath the crust
of the sea.
I, who never doubted this kind of ending,
ready myself to swim.
He too is preparing -
taking in gladesful of air.
I smile.
I see there will be air enough
for both of us.
I scream. I let myself scream
because now he is breathing for me.
He laughs, not minding the
extravagance of my Berber ululations.
Simply, he breathes in another gladeful.
We are going under.
So he tells me the story of
his earliest love.
Hot, hooligan love.
When I reach for his hand
he takes mine firmly.
If we go we'll go together.
I can see that he recognizes,
with a shock, that I am
the hooligan of his youth.
And soon, as the water
begins to flood our lungs,
he sees that I am
all the women who ever loved him.
So disturbing is this,
he lifts me above the waterline.
We are choking and gasping,
glistening with death,
but he displays me to the sunlight
roughly tearing back my hair,
crushing my jaw in his coarse fingers,
twisting my head,
forcing me to gaze into the sun.
Once my eyes have turned to amber coals
he peers deeply into the blaze.
Jesus, oh Jesus, his husky curse.
I push his head down
Deep, under the water.
My Moses.
He takes me to his mouth like a reed.
I am blind but I am breathing
for both of us.
Don't call me Jesus, I hiss.
POLSKA
Polska, he blurted, face full of marvel and mirth
At the irony of the land of my mother’s birth.
Polska, his deep slow grumbling
shook me to my feet
a tank across my terrain, rumbling
a love letter piercingly sweet
from the mouth of a Saturday Night Special.
He studied my face gazing back at him, proud.
Chin up, Girl, Don’t give this man any ground.
Polska, my mother always said,
“Never show a man your whole ass.”
What could that mean?
Never show a man your ass whole?
What could happen?
What cheek to turn?
What cleft to cover?
What cleavage to close?
Why the ass?
Why not the breasts?
Questions you dare not ask
Your mother, or her guests.
Oh, moja Matka, if only I knew
How to discern your advice.
Had you not been so cryptic
You might have spared
His five o’clock shadow
My Sssinnabar lipstick.
Why not just tell me what’d make him
click his heels Jawohl
bend his steely spine over mine
melt his thighs till he kneels
part his smile for my bite
offer his boyish neck
till he purrs with delight
at each lick and each peck
waving his banner, white
with such brave surrender
no General could ever tender.
Mama, you ironed my sheet
When we had no heat.
Now his smile warms me, quivering like soft whips,
little love flames flicking at my back.
But wait! He bridles, casting his smile in total eclipse.
Look Ma, he knows how to cover his ass
Better than I do. What class!
If I am so bold and so naughty
Perhaps he should take me over his knee
slap me until he leaves a tattoo
Of his palm, now so red and haughty.
In my perfume
He surrenders again
Oh what creatures
Are these men?
Ist das a mann?
I was born with white paper
that his eyes sear blue words upon.
Polska, he murmurs
Voice gone hoarse and husky,
Eyes gone deep and dusky,
Ich kűsse Ihre Hand.
ONCE WHAT WAS WHITENESS
Six nights
snow paled the landscape
as they wandered toward its center,
she in her bridal gown,
he in silver marten.
Ermine, swagging from her shoulders,
cleft a trail behind them,
erasing their traces.
In the swirling night
their cheeky erubescence glowed.
At first light,
birds attacked.
He snatched two purple martins
from the cliffs of her cheekbones
and kissed the hot pepper stippling
the sheer flesh below.