Brandon Shimoda
Nights of Columbus
Recite a large print love song
into my lower back
Look at my friendly head
appearing in the dropped-panels on the ceiling
Like a dragon it smirks flame
I applaud you as a founder passing
Angkor
Last night we wondered,
who would win:
the spirits of the demons
or the demons of the spirits.
The demons only see two things,
two possible bones suggesting wing,
and the spirits only see one,
one possible bone suggesting wing,
infolded in the archivolts.
We passed through the gate.
We wandered among the stones,
tempted to eat the windfallen figs.
All eyes spiked red, coolly watching us.
The spirits of the demons were clear:
back away from the syconium.
The demons of the spirits were clear:
come towards the syconium.
We were clear, and could feel a fluttering
from our collars, unfolding itself
in fan elaborations. We are,
they sing, we are,
they sing, to demons and
to spirits and
squash ground
we are, with courage and
squash fruit
we are, with courage and
Keeler Tavern
Balls embedded in the outer walls of
the house, circa 1700’s, still
rattle the pewter plates
as if they had
only been shot
just moments ago.
The fire in the kitchen
illuminating the burnt brick hearth
is fake. You men
and women – proposals
of form –
are all
nearly dead, shown
off your horse-drawn hellos,
competing with your costumed neighbors,
for the curator's bow
and air.
Women in the sculpture garden
mouth commands to their men
who stare
at every alloy lily that passes by.
You will be the sister one
among
the slathering, obsequious
musket-range.
The Oaks.