Inspired from: “Marsyas”
By: Mark Strand
They watch as the cowskin snaps
and cracks across the crusted crease
of his barren innocence then slithers
to suckle the sanglant lather seasoned
of salted red pepper’s boiling brine.
They snicker as the cowskin
Whistles retreat to
The curse of Antebellum praise,
The serpent poised -
Then strikes again.
His screams are unbearable.
Not for himself but for
The coffle’s tears that flow
For Majorelle, Mauritius, Malawi -
A glow in the aswirl mists of
Kirstenbosch, Aswan -
To dance of Bwola, Akoga -
Then wed by the drums of Sunu.
His screams are unbearable.
These are not the works of Nyame!
These are not the first fruits!
You are not Apollo!
These are not the faunas of Marsyas!
Did someone say, Marsyas?
They look up. The snickers stop.
A storm is coming someone said.
His screams are unbearable.
There are flashes of lightning -
The cowskin crops the laden air -
They waite for the thunder.
Châz
