Contemporary Literary Review India | eISSN 2394-6075 | Vol 6, No 3: CLRI August 2019
Andrew McLean
Hurricane
Breath of Senegal,
with whispered voice you
approach the islands,
then a call, a shout-
and holy hell to pay.
Alphabetized incarnations,
your latest metamorphosis
crushing. It is not that you
feel wrath. It is simply your nature.
Your own cathartic scream
drowns out the cries of native tongues.
Just as abruptly,
your post-visit tone becomes
relieved, relaxed, rational
as if nothing ever happened. As if you were
waving to friends leaving a party-
but it is you who leaves, your “goodbye”
barely audible as you turn back in indifference
to the carnage;
quietly wafting away until silent.
Until your next avatar.
Breath of Senegal.
I Almost Always Cry at Costco
I almost always cry at Costco.
(It is wonderful and too much.)
Lord Costco,
Mayan-sounding King of Consumerism!
Entering your temple, I brush by
competitors and non-congregants
attempting to peek in,
(pay your dues, heathen!)
and tip my membership card
to the usher
as I whisk through your apse
into the cathedral.
I almost always cry at church.
(It is inspirational and disturbing.)
It is salvation and damnation
and too much to bear.
Lord God, heavenly king
of those who purchase
the hope of eternity
with their objectivity,
I linger across the street
with those like-minded.
I seem to have misplaced
my membership card.
Jawbreaker Candy
A bout.
About to find
the place; the place
where I
tell the
therapist
the rapist
is no more.
Manslaughter?
Man’s laughter
will cease.
For the last time,
he has crowed, “The
whore presents
who represents
what I want!”
I will crush
his story.
History
will reflect my works.
His soul,
just ice.
Justice
served.
Saffron
Lama, are you the shadow
and the light?
Your prayer wheel and robe,
simple and mysterious,
offer clues.
Alms-
Monastic garb coloured
renunciation! Yet,
behold, the most
lavish spice on earth.
Dharma is to meaning
as saffron is to flavour.
They Came to Church
They came to church
smelling of sex and cigarettes,
brazen in confirmation of their infatuation.
Unbrushed hair of netted knots and snarls,
unbrushed teeth sporting tiny fuzzy plaque sweaters
waiting to be washed away like the sins
of the unfamiliar congregants.
(More like waiting to be torn off
like their own dirty vestments
upon return to the motel.)
They came to church;
stabbing at each other’s thighs,
snickering about pew lap dances
and “not renouncing Satan.”
Spitballs at the confessional curtain.
A condom package in the offertory plate.
They came to church
to rub it in their faces.