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4 Poems by Louie Crew
Phases of Vanishing
Monday
Tom sported a triangle
for a right eye.
It went straight through.
I saw the moon
chase a cloud there."Why do you stare?
Nothing special bout that.
Picasso done it all the time."
Tuesday
Tom turned his nose into a lighter."Just when they outlawed smoking!
Yet and still, some dudes
down the alleys
be asking for a light,
and I flick my Bic."Why do you stare?
Nothing special bout that.
Picasso done it all the time."
Wednesday
Tom's navel grew a red ruby.
We ate Sichuen chicken to celebrate.
Thursday
Tom coughed a twister.
I was not awake when it started
but saw it rip the tv to shreds
as Tom calmly held his chest.
Friday
We did not light the candles.
Tom gave me an ear.
It tasted like green olives
Saturday
Tom's leg had turned to dough.
The bakers came.
Sunday
I heard him, high up in the ceiling,
when the organist and choir hushed
for their own communion.
Monday
Tom is gone.
Why do you stare?
Nothing special bout that.
Picasso done it all the time.
Suckle
Erzulie, you have quickened our taste
for white elbows
boiled in cow urine.
Our tongues are leathery
after our convulsions.Suckle us, Mother Goddess,
in this world of rats and rent,
roaches and crazy preachers.Soothe us, Erzulie.
Do not consume us
in your petty jealousies.Ghede keeps in high polish
the ivory penis handle
of our grave's shovel.
Mait Carrefour assigns tables
to all his demon waiters.
You alone, Erzulie,
with your pierced heart,
can bring us good will
if you can but cease
your twisting.Hear us, Erzulie,
goddess, hear and heal.
Bounds
I.
Mama switched me often,
always saying how much easier I had it,
as an only child.Her mama switched all brothers and sisters
for any one's offense,
marched all seven round the family table
saying, "You other six will get round to evil
before the day is over."But I had no company,
and had to choose my own switch.I learned to pick small but thick,
usually branches of Birds of Paradise
because it scared her, and she just tapped.Limber, sappy switches from ferns or mimosa,
she swung loudly, trusting them
to sting me only green.If I brought a switch too small,
she sent me for another.
II.
Papa paddled, but only four times.
The first time, I stole a shilling
from the fat girl in Year One
and bragged about it at supper.Before the punishment,
I had to return the money
and say I was sorry,
while my parents listened in the stairwell.The second time, at 9,
I taught Poon Pik Yuk
a game I had invented, Naked,
but her mama returned by the back garden.We tried to drape ourselves
in Pik Yuk's brothers' paper dragon,
but were too late."Bounds," second of two pages.
The third time, Wong Yuet's papa
caught him and me begging pennies
from the foreigners outside the cinema.I raised chickens to sell in the market.
I vaguely expected Papa to praise me again,This time, since I didn't know the people,
I could not return the money.
I don't remember what I did with it,
but I'm sure I did not spend it on a film.My fourth offense was so egregious
I seem to have blocked it out completely,
though in dreams I come nearer with age.
III.I see Papa's hand ascend again,
each of the four paddlings,
the nail in the wooden slat
carefully turned away.Mama often said the switchings
hurt her more than they did me,
but I did not believe her.Yet in the basement
next to the coal bin,
my pants down, my fanny
bared for his surest aim,
each time my Papa wept.
IV.At fifty-one,
with both parents long dead,
with good and evil
now matured into a muddle,
what wouldn't I give
to go to the dark cellar,
find the smoothest broken slat with nail,
and drop my drawers.I don't romanticize.
I remember the pain as pain.
I could not sit for hours.
But I always slept.
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© Crews, 2007
Louie Crew, 70, is the author of 1,785 published poems and essays. He is an emeritus professor of English at Rutgers University. He lives in East Orange with Ernest Clay, his husband of 32 years.
Louie Crew (left) & Ernest Clay (right)
