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In the Jardin Des Plantes the panther (the hollow in its flank a sculptor's nightmare)
narrows eyes as green as malachite; the poet set to cage it in a sonnet
notes dutifully the power, the grace turning and turning in its narrowed space
under that electric fur the dart of nerves, the hammering heart —
he knows. The panther never stops its circle around the still point — scribble, scribble —
then just at one half-turn pauses to stare straight through the eyes of metaphor.
This stout materfamilias, a solid presence in thick serge skirts, sits staring at the photographer's lens as if it were some unpleasant duty to be endured, not spoken about.
The family bible weights the table turned to the flyleaf register of births and deaths, her curriculum vitae.
Behind her, her man, bearded, upright lays a proprietary hand on her shoulder: marriages like mourning clothes were made to last.
Above the television her descendants smirk from a technicoloured wedding group already losing its gloss.
Pink satin bridesmaids offer flowers as if appeasing the camera.
The bride, in white, approximates virginity. The men awkward in borrowed clothes do not quite know what is expected of them or where to stand.
A fine homecoming. Beacons blazing from every hill. Scarlet cloth laid out for his entry. No good will come of it, I said, it’s not our way
From the start it was not as we’d thought. That mad girl shrieking — unseemly. A poor omen for the future, I said, to begin in tears
And her smile an inch too wide her voice spreading honey. Poor fly, he fell for it. Never trust a woman, I said, whose husband betrays her
Well, it’s done now best to see nothing say nothing. They’re in charge here, I said, no questions asked
I’m glad the son wasn’t there — who knows how such a thing might take him? He’s his father’s image, I said, a walking reproach
We’ve rolled the carpet up. Here I am slapping soiled robes on the stones. A sin and shame, I said, to bloody fine linen
The gods of the Yoruba live in unassuming fashion. You find them in twigs or oddly shaped pebbles or a red small spider may house a deity with fondness for weaving.
There are gods of this and that — of rain, for instance. But they don’t patronize. They like to be prayed to enjoy small offerings, the occasional blood-sacrifice.
If you ignore them they’ll ignore you: so you'll cock up. It won't be their concern.
There are some gods elsewhere could take a hint from the Yoruba.
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