By Reason Of...

by Patricia Gomes

 

Under the unwavering stare of a one-legged parrot named Guapo,
we discuss hypochondria, malformation,
atrocity, and disease —
both social and anti.
Now and again, Guapo cracks a peanut
and flings it in my direction, causing a distraction.
The bird urges me to leave, I'm certain,
but I cannot
having come on a scheduled mission to converse with the Madman.
They allow him
white seersucker suits
and a supply of fresh linen handkerchiefs. Someone has snuck him
a hand-rolled Cuban to smoke
in case his picture should be taken
as they are
taken
with him
and those superior Southern manners, the gentlemanly airs
he does possess. They call him Doctor
out of respect, never mindful of the fact that when he was finally apprehended
it was while lawn bowling with the heads of his last three victims.
We sink uncomfortably into our peacock chairs
and shared paranoia
under a squeaky rust bucket of a ceiling fan;
its lazy spin hypnotizes the crippled bird. It sways on its perch, a feathered metronome.
The fan squeaks, the bird squawks and I
struggle
to keep my lunch down, afraid to sip at the tea before me.
The good doctor's lips speak welcome—but oh—his milky eyes
declare a familiarity with undetectable toxins.
I spiral note after note in haste, getting the who/what/when/where.
I came only for Why
and leave without it,
spending the better part of the night washing my hands
to purge the brutality of severed heads, misshapen fetuses,
and the tools of the Good Doctor's trade.
I stare into the sink, watch the swirling, sullied water drain
into the depths of Hell,
taking with it
a flaming-red tail feather
from a one-legged parrot named Guapo.

© 2006 copyright Patricia Gomes