The last poem in Dragonfly is focused on Aboriginal life and art in Australia.
Heirloom
. . . 'tobacco pouches' made from dried scrotums of Blacks . . .
bodies skinned
for their cicatrice patterns and pickled in the
South Australian Museum basement.
—Kevin Gilbert, Introduction to
Inside Black Australia (1988)
How trippingly flits the phrase dried scrotums of Blacks
In a drawing room, perhaps a parlor
on Downing Street, some famous explorer
in tartan waistcoat, watchfob glinting in gaslight
dips his ivory Meerschaum into the pouch
the coarse kinky hair left
cunningly on the outside
like Robinson Crusoe's goatskin cap
Dried scrotums of Aborigines
Whose balls these are I think I know
His skull is in the museum though
Why not
pyramid of bones in Khmer Rouge jungle
for one escaped into Egypt, a thousand babies' heads
skin flayed into filigree, a shade for an Aryan lightbulb
human cobblestones lining the road to My Lai
in darkest Alabama, strange fruit blossoming
Why not
Why not?
On a cliff face, ancient in Australia
an x-ray man
is peeling himself from the rock
his cross-hatched heart, his lungs
glisten white in the sun
In the haze, a frill-necked lizard looks
then zips into shadow
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Page 42
The x-ray woman
her see-through breasts, her ovaries
outlined in ochre spirals
moves toward her lover
sparks fly as they fuck, like struck flint, like flames of synaptic junctions
They come, the x-ray man and woman
his testicles glowing like twin stars
her uterus a gleaming cloud, a galaxy
Shimmer into their Dreaming, a billion
one-celled Aboriginal girls and boys
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Page 43
The poem's epigraph describes awful racist acts against the Aboriginal people of Australia. The poem begins by sarcastically imagining such racism not only in Australia but across the world, throughout history, and then contrasting that against the artistic power of ancient Aboriginal rock art, called X-ray paintings because they image creatures and humans with their internal organs visible, emphasizing their connection with nature and with the ancient mythical period of creation called Dreaming. It's a poem of eternal hope in the face of horror. Did you see the little parody of Robert Frost in the first half of the poem?
As always, I'd love to get some feedback or discuss anything with all y'all. Comment, okay? Thanks. Ingat.
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