More Popa. Just finished the book. “Little Box” did little for me, much more interested in his last book, when the poet and his ancestry come in. I loved the poem the “Other World” — and somehow I need to write a paper about why. The poem begins so strange with those cupcakes drifting down the river, and then ends on Popa trapping birds.
If there is magic
it was the saddle of the horse,
how it curved to fit the strength
of its colossal back,
how the big black eye
looked and kept looking.
Under the avocado trees,
the smell of California.
There was something other than
the way you used to look at me,
the black eye like a body bag.
When they pulled out five
women and four men, I felt
trapped in, swatting flies
with my tail. Who was to know,
they were already dead. The bodies
rotting behind the garage and
that horrible smell.
I HAVE NO CLUE WHAT I’M WRITING.
He labeled everything with masking tape.
There was an orange on the counter.