USA

PASSING THROUGH THE FIRE

The Nazis used tools.
They mastered fire.

Yes, we’ve all heard,
yes, we all know,
they stacked up bodies like corkwood
For the incinerators.

But the holocaust began with healthy, normal
intellectual skepticism.
They denied the sacred scriptures.

They craved the old ways
of the Phoenicians—
a name that simply means “Red-head” in Egyptian—
red hair—red like fire—
the same people as the Old Testament Philistines,
Goliath and Delilah,
whom some maintained were of the Aryans,
Adamites,
who once lived 1,000 years
before the fall and flood—
the “Arya” of the ancient Sanksrit Vedas
a name that simply means “Lords of the soil”
and in the Latin “Arare,” “to Plow”—
farmers who tilled the ground
cultivated at the sweat of their brow
though the earth choked up with weeks.

The Nazis adopted the primordial symbol
of the Hindus, the Britons, the Phoenicians—
the sacred emblem, the swastika
that simply meant sun or fire
long before it became the ugly spider.
Its broken arms turned right.

The Nazis revived the ancient mythology.
Like the Philistines they lit the bon fires.
They passed through the flames.
They honored the sun.
They honored the Egyptian Amen Ra.
They honored Baal.

They practiced the ancient sun worship.
At the Summer Solstice, they circled the blaze
then jumped right through.

But they were careful with themselves
leaping through that fire,
for having passed through the flames before,
they knew that fire really burns.

They smoldered bodies, books,
synagogues, living children.

They accepted death through Adam
with all the skepticism in the world.

They craved the inferno.
They mastered fire.

NEVER FORGET!

. . . And so it came to pass that Molly begat Marley
And Marley cleaved to Lucy, and Lucy begat eleven puppies:
Two died at birth; nine were adopted . . .

I’ll never forget when Lucy
Birthed her puppies:
Fanta and Tweetie . . .
Teddy and Little Piv . . .

Yes, Little Piv!
Little Piv, The Scrumptious!
Little Piv, whose paws were soft and warm like a rabbit’s

I’ll never forget his little belly
So cute! So delicious!

Silly, scared, and messy—
Poor little thing—
A fur ball with all the issues—

Now, he’s been adopted
Now, they call him “Otis”
Otis? I guess that’s okay

I’ve been assured: “He has a big back yard,”
And I assure you, nothing would make me
More content than knowing I am nobody
Compared to his new masters—
To know he’s loved and happy—
That’s all that matters!

And yet, sometimes I miss him
I think of him
And his profundity of whiskers,
His fluffy blond mantle, like a lion’s mane

I see him hunching on his hind legs,
Pleading for a stroke or dripping morsel—
The simple things that keep a dog doggy

I’ll never forget
His trusting belly,
Offered so freely--
His paws so soft and warm and begging

The Tragedy of
THE CROTCH LIBERAL & THE SIZE-THING

The mind of the Crotch Liberal never rests.
He meets the Size-thing for lunch inside
the college mess hall.

He speaks directly,
“I’m not a communist; I’m a Crotch Liberal.
I know some men are gay,
and then some.
As a child, my mother to read me the fairy tale of
Snow White and Rose Red
where the dwarf said to Mr. Bear,
Spare me!
I’ll give you all my treasures.
Look, the beautiful jewels lying there!
What do you want with such a scrawny little fellow as I?
You’d not feel me between your teeth.
Come take these two wicked girls.
They’re tender morsels for you—fat as quails.
For mercy’s sake eat them!”

The Size-thing blots the mayonnaise from her mouth.
“Life is not a fairy tale.”

The Crotch Liberal sips his cappuccino.
“Ah yes, ivy must crawl up brick correctly.”
He lowers his spoon like a scepter.
“You can prefer a black man,
an old man, or a woman.”

The Size-thing considers the categories.
“I haven’t decided yet.”

That night the Size-thing dreamt a funny dream
she paired up with a stick man—
a Jack Sprat who could eat no fat
and his wife could eat no lean.

A few weeks lapse.
Young feminists bustle
about the dormitory like midwives.
They pat the Size-thing’s balled-up back
as she crouches by the bedside—
“I hate white men!”
Her father, brother, Uncle Joe—
she squeezes them from her eyes,
white knuckles pounding.

The Crotch Liberal’s
not a white man he’s a
Crotch Liberal—
invulnerable—
He doesn’t need protection.
After dark, during open hours
he pokes his nose through the fissure,
“Make your choice.”

The Size-thing,
“I’m still thinking.”

Fourteen miles away
an old man rocks himself on his porch.
He scratches his scraggly beard.
His toothpick dangles.

Outside the dormitory window
a black man drones and musters.
The Size-thing sets a cross on the sill.
She sleeps with a Ding Dong beneath the pillow.

From across campus
the DoMe arrives.
“She don’t want your nasty ass. Now git!”
She whacks the black man.

Midterms pass.
The Crotch Liberal joins the Size-thing
on the sidewalk as they head for class.

The Crotch Liberal,
“The DoMe saw a Twinkie in your pocket.”

The Size-thing,
“She rides my back like a monkey.”

The Crotch Liberal,
“The Black Man keeps a condom in his wallet.”

The Size-thing,
“He would.”

The Crotch Liberal,
“Maybe you could find some old, toothless farmer.”

The Size-thing,
“Maybe you could just stand back.”

The Crotch Liberal,
“Look, you’ve got the lick the platter clean
with somebody. Aren’t we happy yet?”
His blue eyes sing.
“Are you asking me to do it?”
He holds the golden ball like the Frog King.

The Size-thing,
“Maybe you could just mind your own business.”

The Crotch Liberal,
“Maybe you could go on a diet!”

The Size-thing,
“Maybe you could go to Hell!”

SOCCER MOM

For years we had to adore her
She stood atop the mountain
like some pre-feminism man
looking down—
legs sturdy pillars
feet akimbo
arms folded
lips wrested of a grin
For years her fart was fad—
the Soccer Mom

But what’s so hot about soccer?
What about basketball?

And what’s so great about sports?
How about piano lessons?

And what’s so best about boys?
Some moms have girls

And what’s so all-venerable about moms?
Some women just tote a dog

She epitomized exclusion—
the Soccer Mom

We scurried like mice beneath her footstool—
the Soccer Mom

We had to worship her like the next cultish god—
the Soccer Mom

We had to eat her excrement—
the Soccer Mom

She couldn’t just be a woman—
the Soccer Mom

She evolved from the slime—
our most compelling demographic—
the Soccer Mom

I mean, “Soccer Mom”?!
Who came up with that?!

Soccer Mom?!
What is that?!

The cow’s been milked for all she’s worth
her udder empty now and crinkly

My heart’s been bled for all its blood
and now I’m brazen
my patience is a dry and shriveled raisin

No, she’s not a demon from Hell—
but still

She had to fall—
the Soccer Mom

Radical Left Blonde

Radical left blonde
roves the roads in a red convertible—
wind feathers her hair into stale strings

She meets the religious right black man
at Starbucks to argue abortion—
a tired issue

He’s learnt to walk the walk
He dons his Salvation Army
thrift store suit for any occasion
like his cohorts
he conforms to Stand For

Neo Nazis now close cousins
like Neanderthals
he revamps the exhausted question—
old manure for new politics
His dark hands remonstrate
He talks the talk:

“Look,
It doesn’t matter who rapes you, the children—
a black man
a white honky
a blue-footed boobie
a Purple People Eater
The Great Pumpkin—
there’s just no excuse for abortion!”

Radical left blonde
keeps stoic as a damp cigarette
that can’t be lit.
She flicks her finger like a cricket,
“It’s just a piece of tissue
The size of my thumbnail”

He humps his limp hiss,
“You must forgive!”

© All Copyright, Anna Cates.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.