David J. Rothman Cruelty to Animals
A charlatan, no way she was a gypsy.
Makes her living on the wits of tourists.
But what the hell, a way to blow off steam.
She watched me as I lay the money out.
"Tradition," she said. I smirked. Hokey stage voice.
She lifted her veil with one veined hand, revealed
A wrinkled face, dry skin, dry hair, dry eyes,
"To free the soul from so much emptiness."
What a crock of idiotic crap.
She turned and spat three times in the chicken's throat,
Then made me help her hold it to the table.
We watched it choke, as the ritual requires.
It was all I could do to keep from laughing.
But I was impressed that she would go this far
To convince some stranger that the future held
Events that her rehearsed words paralleled.But when she settled the cheap, gaudy rags
That aimed to pass for wisdom, silk, and satin
Around her in the studded chair again
And ordered me "Now, talk," I controlled myself.
I said "Brother and I used to tip cows
That stood asleep in the dark. Their udders reached
For heaven, little Hagia Sophias.
And just last week, in hungry Andalusia,
I did not feed the starving dogs, or stop
To stop the children who forced cigarettes
Between the leathery lips of small chameleons
That ran in circles, then expired, black—
I guess you can't take dumb stuff like that back."The chicken twitched, another wasted dinner.
The "gypsy" whined "Now give one piece of hair..."
That's when I flat-out lost it, laughed at her.
"Listen," I said, "what can you do about it?
This stuff is serious. We're talking dirt,
We're talking you can't even understand,
Whatever, this is stupid. You really think
You're going to dispel that? Give me a break.
So go ahead, what can you do about it."
She leaned forward, said "Tell me more.""Come on,"
I said, knowing she hadn't understood
A word. Her tired eyes stood gray and dull.
She slowly held the dead bird up between us,
Its lifeless eye against my eye, and scowled.
"Now you are free of your past, which was illusions.
The future is a more bright place, with love.
These words will make you see that it is there.
I see changes for you coming now.
The way a tree grows, lovely, green and life.
And you will meet your wife within a year."
"Like it's so easy, right, like one two three,"
I said, got up to leave, and wondered, blank,
How many times these fortunes, learned by rote,
Had risen to a stranger's need for solace,
As if mere words could forge an antidote.Regretting both my anger and desire,
I stepped out of the shack into the street.
The sun was beating down like spikes of brass.
The stones and rubbish rubbed against the hovels.
The woman stood behind me in the door,
Looking for the world like a jilted bride
And muttering "Not done, come back, come back..."
I smiled and said "No thanks." She went inside.I wiped the sweat from my brow, then spun the cap
Off an old plastic bottle I'd filled with water.
I heard a curse, and turned in time to see
A crystal ball come sailing through the air,
The gypsy yelling "You a goddamn man!"It bonked me on the head. I saw it fall
As if reflected perfect in itself,
And very slow, to shatter on a rock.
I'd tried to jump, but too late, and I stumbled.
The water gurgled, sloshed, bubbled, and spilled
Over itself to splash around my feet
And star around me with the glistening shards
On dry, cracked ground. I felt my clumsy heels
Stick fast and weak, my legs wave up, back twist,
And these short fingers twitch and splay, reach out.
Bark stippled, rippled over, and knotted around
What had been thighs, rich scales covered these eyes.
Then branches arced across the luminous sky.
Sleep's leaves unfurled from these thick knobby arms,
And coiled out of the mouth and nose I'd used
To ask to be disproved. Ears gathered moss,
This hair swirled up, went tight, became a nest.
Each toe remembered rootedness' track,
Turned root, then ripped and burst the dirty soles
Of these poor shoes, split through the brittle crust
In which the black earth holds its secret life,
Twined down through invisibility and sank
Into a cool, clear river, where they drank.When I came to, the glass was swept away,
Cool towels were wrapped around my head, and I
Lay propped in shade against a whitewashed wall.
That rip-off bitch was gone, her door locked tight,
And no one else was anywhere in sight.My short-term memory was bad for weeks.
I'd keep forgetting where I was and stand
Stock still, stuck like a post, trying to think,
Utter some word that wouldn't come to light.
But all that passed off soon. What stays with me...
I talk about it, people think I'm dreaming.
Well, I liked being a tree. That feeling of quiet.
The sense of holding on to something dear,
Drinking, drinking, my leaves rustling gently
In every weather, every hour alive.
The tranquil inability to speak,
Or fear, or rage, or work, or shed a tear.