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Three Poems
by Stefi Weisburd

Scenes from a Little God Childhood

•
A little god, wrapped in popsicle sticks, feathers
and tape, is dropped from a second story
castle turret along with a dozen
eggs bundled, by little hands,
in bubble wrap, springs and letters of love.

•
While big gods on the fishing boat
orchestrate sunset, a little god projects
Aurora Borealis on a landed dorados' scales
then sneaks it back into the sea.

•
Before the world is ransacked by flowers,
little little gods at the Divine Preschool dig up
dinosaur fossils. A girl god with paramecium eyes
thinks they look suspiciously like wishbones.
In the class photo, she is Mystery, sitting
in the front row with her hands
foraging up under her skirt.


My body, the government palace

in which M. Fat is a doled bureaucrat

filling in forms, sweating like a swamp

hound, ignoring the supplicant bones

with their hats in their hands, in line

with their futile petitions to reduce

the burgeoning overhead. M. Fat

with fish eyes too yellow to be

real, laughs & all the lackeys’

tongues, in resonance, vibrate.

Failed Orgasm in a Room Stuffed with Metaphors


The
cantilevered
conveyor belt
begins to roll in the
juice, the kettle’s nudged
beyond simmer. Breath bottled
in its piston, a whir of nerves erecting
a pyre, and… Yes? Oh alright, let the volcano
in too. Can you squeeze in back there near the
roman candles and the cherry bomb? Hey! Rose bud
swelling in stilettos, move a bit to your left. There. Now, where
were we? Ah yes, the skin’s tight echo, the conductor ramping up to
the crescendo, the mantle lit & stirring, fountain filling, brimming, almost…
Hold on. Is that a snail of doubt I see crawling on the conductor’s baton?
And why do the strings seem more interested in lint than tremolo? Bell
ringers, where are you going? No, I haven’t seen your clappers,
but that’s no reason… Oh great, now the volcano’s blown
out. You just got here, Chump! Look! The conductor
is pulling out photos of his kids, and his mother
for Christ’s sake. The rocket’s flopped to the
launch pad, the flower folds, ecstasy,
slurped back in its genii bottle,
the train’s out of service.
Fantasies! Not you
too! They’re re-
trieving their
(turn) coats
from the
hostess’s
bed,
saying
what a
lovely
time
they
had,
lying
through
their
faked
teeth.

 

Stefi Weisburd's first book The Wind-Up Gods will be released from Black Lawrence Press in early 2008. Barefoot, a collection of poems for children will be available February 2008.