A new poem by Rose McLarney (poetry, ’10) appears online in Mudlark:
You don’t want the story about the soft clutch of monkey’s toes, how monkeys swung languorous from limbs, showering down fruit. But rather, the one about how the blue-eyed Abando boy’s body hung after he was lynched for robbing our house, for robbing any place ever left empty. You are not as interested in fruit— hearing how it was heavy and pendulous through the forest, a forest hung with bunches of bananas, zapotes that fell erupting orange custard among rambutans— as in the way thieves ripped jewelry from women’s ears, hooks pulled through the lobes, so they hung with rubies of blood. You listen more closely when I tell of how I clung to the reins when a drunk whipped my horse into a frenzy and out, swimming, to sea, than of the tame iguana I hung in a bird cage, fine wire formed into a palace. Even though I fed him on hibiscus, and could describe so many lush, red flowers, folding from the mouth.