FALL 2011/WINTER 2012

POETRY

The Man Who Fell Inside His Horn by Rashida Ismali

He wishes to be

entombed

inside a metallic womb

where closed sides

tunnel him

and, he is safe.

His fingers tap

little heads

and valves throb

pumping, pulsating

melodies.

His hands paint

images of his heart

and head.

Reluctant he stands,

legs apart,

eyes shut out

smiling faces,

and nodding heads.

His ears hear his horn

cry out against

a loud laugh,

a crude voice,

cutting cords

his music makes.

He wants only

to go deep inside

the storage unit

of his compositions,

to bring the reality

of notes he translates

from ancestors who speak

in night-time dreams

and daily fantasies.

The hurt his horn sings

birthing a jubilant sont

in his head. Intoxicated,

he sweats and rivulets of water

pour from his brow.

His mouth and tongue

spit fire and thunder.

Staccato and sibilant,

his new music gushes you

onto the heads

of disbelievers. Yes,

this is where he lives,

in a house where melody

and rhythm dwell

within space and time.

Slowly he peels each wet item;

his soaked white shirt

underneath

a dark blue jacket.

A tie, green and blue

hangs atop his horn case.

Next the sleeveless tee shirt

falls to the floor.

All, all that covers his body

is wet. The embryonic sac

has broken. His water flows

and his children have fled

the entrapment of page and horn.

These babies are cradled

in the hearts and brains

of those who witness their birth.

He is a father of many.

His are now orphans

and he weeps for them.

Naked he stands in a small room

turning slowly looking for

the mother who

did not carry to term

his descendants, now

making their way amongst

those who are insatiable

in their needs to drain

from him one more.

Encore! Encore! Encore!

There are fifteen minutes left.

He dries and opens his magic box.

Inside he pulls an elastic band,

and a white ball of cotton.

The smell of alcohol

perfumes the room.

He cooks a fast meal.

Ingest and dresses.

One more set waits

on a makeshift stage

where drums sit gleaming.

His change of clothes

encase his slim body.

Beige becomes him.

The men assemble.

He stands at the ready

in the middle counting.

Contractions come

sharp and swift. Yes,

It's time. Uh-uh- uh-uh-uh.

Medication dulls pangs of birth.

Music flows from his mouth.

His head is elevated.

His breath is expansive

and supports his tessitura.

He wants to slide down

a gleaming hole

and hide in the comfort

of a womb  his horn makes.

Yes, that is why

when not playing,

he sleeps in the arms

of pianissimo sostentamento.

This painting he mouths,

rests below the dermis.

So, he picks up his axe

and chops a tree. There

in the twine of roots

his children call him

to come play

in holes where

their mother waits

to make an anthem of life.