Ten paces from the threshold, the world swirls white. You see
velvet, a magician in black evening clothes. You don't
understand
his sneer. Dry smoke encircles him. Ashes in the wind ice-white.
Five paces away. A
blue-black crow stares. Beautiful,
his left leg black, his right white. Wings beautiful.
He doesn't smell the carrion he'll eat. Come close as the crow eats;
the stink of his dinner will set your lungs afire. You'll cough,
cough, as you run, bent. Wings and head ready to jump
to the red and pink sky.
Ready to jump you.
Two paces, the rooster, who scares you. Black giant,
beak, tongue, claws waiting for the little boy. Black spurs.
He crouches in the cold weeds. Ready for the dance.
Ready to scream. Ready to chase the little boy
when he comes near.
The little boy wears a yellow cap.
We enter the tapestry.
Through the black Stygian mystery tromps Mars.
He is velvet, he is the magician, the crow, the
rooster. He is blue,
he is black, and he hates the little boy. He smiles at
Americans,
who see red pouring from mouths. You and I are Mars ,
and you and I are Americans. We see red pouring from mouths.
Rush, Americans. Rush.
***
Craig McVay grew up in Indiana and now lives, with his wife, in Columbus, Ohio. His degrees are in English and Classics. He has a handful of poems (and a short story) in local and national publications, online and in print. Among these are Avatar Review, Blue Unicorn, Classical Bulletin, Everything Stops and Listens (anthology of poems by members of the Ohio Poetry Association),Icon, Pudding Magazine, Shark Reef, and others.
