Tuesday, April 30, 2013

April & Poetry 20


The Mark
There’s no doubt that the mark she sees on the exposed brick wall is a cockroach.  She thinks about it for a while.  She’s never really despised cockroaches as much as she has always pretended to.  She doesn’t mind them crawling on her while she nurses The Master’s child.  She doesn’t even mind when the infestation grows so out of hand that the government declares a state of emergency.  She remains calm.  She nurses the child.  The infant continues to suckle with quiet passion.  Her eyes open and close.  Her tiny, pink hand rests on the woman’s flesh.  The woman uses her long hands to brush the creeping vermin off the child’s head.  She chants the thousand names of the divine mother over and over.  After forty cycles of chanting, the roaches enter into fits.  She watches their brown bodies shake as if charged with electricity.  She chants the names of the divine mother over again in rapt quietude.  The room fills with light—the nation fills with light—and the insects burst like soap bubbles; bugs burst up and down every coast.  A remarkable sight!  And the sound is like a billion Zen E bells ringing out over the purple mountains majesty and above the fruited plains.  The government lifts all warnings, all sanctions, all curfews.  Though the woman becomes a national hero, she doesn’t move from the rocking chair.  She continues to nurse until the child decides she’s had her fill. 

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