|Jul/Aug 2003 • Poetry • Special Feature|
Gacela of Consumer Apathy
What I know about immunity is taught by the eyes
of sick caged rabbits, moving to heaven
for our vanity. My guilt is heavy as a brick.
I saw someone with rabbit eyes clutching a lipstick
like a carrot, behind boxes of cosmetics stacked
heavy as bricks, immune to heaven's light.
I was rabbit-punched by the brickly kiss
of glowing consumer angels, immune to responsibility,
who promised heaven in a sterile but pleasing wrapper.
My hand turning a heavenly radio dial, immune
to the rabbit-tongued announcers talking bric-a-brac
in a language of parsnips and bright flowers.
I sought diplomatic immunity in the City
of Rabbits, a heaven from the ravages of hawks,
a brick wall to block the language of feral dogs.
Under the brick facades all eyes turn upward,
almost in prayer, to the rabbit of the moon
immune to the cumulous heavens around it.