Lucia Perillo
Inseminating the Elephant
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Inseminating the Elephant
Any idiot can face a crisis; it is this day-to-day living that wears you out.
For Hayden Carruth (1921–2008) for cheering me on.
And for James Rudy for picking me up.
Virtue Is the Best Helmet
One of these days I’m going to get myself an avatar
so I can ride an archaeopteryx in cyberspace—
goodbye, the meat cage.
Pray the server doesn’t crash, pray
against the curse of carpal tunnel syndrome.
But then my friend the lactation consultant
brings up the quadriplegic who gave birth
(two times no less)
(motorcycle wreck)
just to make her body do
one thing the meat could still remember.
Somebody has to position the babies
to sip the breastmilk rivulets.
And the cells exude
despite their slumber. One minute
too much silence, the next there’s so much screaming.
Turns out Madagascar’s giant cockroach
makes a good addition to a robot
because the living brain adds up to more than: motor,
tracking ball, and the binary numeric code.
Usually the cockroach flees from light,
but sometimes it stands in its little coach unmoving,
stymied by the dumb fact of air.
And sometimes it rams into a wall
to force the world to show its hand.
Found Object
Somebody left this white T-shirt
like a hangman’s hood on the new parking meter—
the magic marks upon its back say: I QUIT METH 4-EVER.
A declaration to the sky, whose angels all wear seagull wings
swooping over this street with its torn scratch tickets
and Big Gulp cups dropped by the curb.
Extra large, it has been customized
with a pocketknife or a canine tooth
to rough the armholes where my boobs wobble out
as I roam these rooms lit by twilight’s bulb,
feeling half like Bette Davis in a wheelchair
and half like that Hells Angels kingpin with the tracheotomy.
Dear reader, do you know that guy?
I didn’t think so. If only we could all watch the same tv.
But no doubt you have seen the gulls flying,
and also the sinister bulked-up crows
carrying white clouds of hotdog buns in their beaks:
you can promise them you’ll straighten up, but they are such big cynics.
I should have told you My lotto #’s 2-11-19-23-36
is what’s written in front, beside the silk screen
for Listerine Cool Mint PocketPaks™—
which means you can’t hijack my name;
no, you have to go find your own, like a Hopi brave.
You might have to sit in a sweat lodge until you pass out
or eat a weird vine and it will not be pleasant. Your pulse
goes staccato like a Teletype machine — then blam
you’ll be transformed into your post-larval being.
Maybe swallowtail, maybe moth: trust me, I know
because once I was a baby blue convertible
but now I’m this black hot rod painted with flames.
Rebuttal
My quarrel with the Old Masters is: they never made suffering big enough—
that tiny leg sliding into the bay almost insults me,
that it should be all we get of the falling boy after the half-hour stunt
of his famous flying. Don’t you see
they are cartoons? the drunk hissed
in the British Museum, a drunk in a sport coat
that made him look credible at first, some kind of docent,
an itinerant purveyor of glosses that left me
confused. I studied Brueghel’s paintings, tiny
skaters, and hunters come home with tiny dead animals
gutted outside the frame, where the tiny offal
presumably had been left. I was looking for Icarus
but the Musée des Beaux-Arts is in Belgium you twit
and so I did not see the plowman wearing his inexplicably
dainty shoes, a cartoon you American sow,
and no one came to my rescue in that gallery vacated
even by its dust. Where I also did not see the galleon
anchored below the plowman’s pasture with its oblivious,
content-with-being-tiny sheep. But just wait
until that ship sails out
and encounters the kind of storm that’ll require Abstract
Expressionism to capture the full feeling of.
The giant canvases of the twentieth century!
Swaths of color with no figures in them at all!
How immense the drowning when you’re the boy who drowns.
Between the fireball on your back and the water in front
all gray and everywhere and hard as concrete when you smack down.
“Dona”
Many of the Girl Scout songs
extorted a smile, our servile mugging—
but this one we loved best.
Starring a calf being hauled in a minor key,
its refrain two mournful syllables: dona.
First came the long o—an induction/seduction
to join the animal’s cargo cult, then came
the short a, when the calf turned to beef
with no last meal and no reprieve.
The gist of the lyric: that we could choose
to be the calf in the cart or a bird in the sky;
the idea was simple, but also a lie: dona.
Bird is small and can fly where it wants
but it’ll never be Miss Teen USA,
whereas the word abattoir was a chic French kiss
our tongues would enter willingly.
Let that bird flitter off
like a dry dead leaf: this was a hymn
that we sang on our knees
on the dais by the flag, dressed in our sashes
and green berets like irregulars planning