17 May 2010 | Vol. 10, No. 1
The Flower Octagon of Old Manhattan
Laura said it must be a vagina of cabbage
with an army of white ants.
The postman in knee socks
wears an aluminum-foil hat
over his long red locks.
The bats are leaving their caves
and with some haste we have discovered early evening.
Hog intestine packed
with pickled meats and the lavender heather
of this past spring are hanging
from the ceiling.
All the Sopranos
were butchered in that booth.
An eyeball rolling across the floor,
not in silence, nearly though.
It was the daughter
who put the fork in his eye—
a glass prosthesis.
He put a butter knife in her esophagus
flooding the lungs with blood.
Most poor members of the audience,
typically and with exasperation,
adjusted the knobs on their televisions.
No one was prepared for the future trouble
in our banks. Least of all
the banks. You believe that?
of course, he thought to retrieve
the eyeball. Polishing it
on his long sleeve. The pig intestine
blushing beyond belief. Electricity
leaving his hands for the streets.
About the author:
Norman Dubie's most recent collection of poems, Insomniac Liar of Topo, was just published by Copper Canyon Press. He lives in Arizona.
For further reading:
See the complete list of work by Norman Dubie at 42opus. Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 10, No. 1, where "The Flower Octagon of Old Manhattan" ran on May 17, 2010. List other work with these same labels: poetry.