My Woman Is A Copper Gong
After the painting ‘Cat in the Moonlight’
by Théophile Alexandre Steinlen (1859–1923) (featured above)
Where is the night? It is so bright.
What is that light up in the sky
that shines a round tin can of cod?
There sits my Mabel on the bough
eyes singing sparks of copper gongs.
She’s mine—all scented toe beans, black
and glossy. Clean, slick fur, an inky
coat groomed like a proper queen.
Above—the twinkly stars—all mine!
The midnight sounds—the whistling starlings
in the trees—my chirping crickets
the scuttling bugs I love to chase.
They’re mine—all mine. I waul and trill
a panegyric—yelp and yowl with joy!
But what is this? And who are you? You sniff
my Mabel? No. This is an outrage, an affront.
Those funky, grubby paws of yours stink vile.
Look at these matty tangles! Such gritty
ugly, shifty eyes—so smeared and sooty.
You, dear sir, are a disgrace! Off—scoot away.
I said leave—no-o-ow! This is my place,
all mine. All that you see—it’s mine!
Whoa-oa, I said. Step back. This is my
woman, too! Not yours—she’s mine, all mine!
I s-snarl and s-spit on you, you scabby blockhead.
Scram, or I will bite you. Hee-e-e. See teeth?
They slice and tear like sharpened knives.
Go away, far, far away. Here, hear my feet
padding behind? Pum—pum—pum—pum.
I’m swift, faster than you. Oh, yes I am.
And here I come. Pum—pum—pum—pum.
I got you! On your knees, you nasty bum.
Hush up. Now grovel, yes, like that.
Get on your back, you scruffy scumbag—what?
Whoa-oa—wait! What is that tang? Come closer,
let me whiff your mouth. Oh, my! It’s fish. Fresh
mackerel on your breath. Oo-oh. I love, I love. I love!
Alright, we’re friends, my buddy. Where you find?
Give me too, please. Grilled nice and oily, smoky
crispy crunchy skin. And tasty eyes like copper
moon-beams. Good, so good! Oh, show me where,
I beg of you. You want my woman? Taste her, too.
She yours. I trade you fish for Mabel.
Where you go, Mabel? OK, goodbye.
I have the moon, the stars, the trees. And
all that smells and moves and glimmers.
I sink my teeth and claws into the night.
The night is mine. Yes, mine. All mine.
What The Colocasia Hears
A Haibun
I spy him looking at me warily from under the broad green shade of a giant elephant’s ear leaf. His thin stained lips are pulled back into an insouciant smile, and he knows that I know. He locks eyes with me for a moment as if winking, then curls up into a ball, crosses his paws and drifts off, lost in the haze of a languorous sunlit afternoon.
Birds are chattering in the dappled shadows—sparrows, wrens, a flutey wood thrush. Out of nowhere, a jet’s low thunder claws and shudders the air, tearing a savage hole through the quiet canopy. Startled, a single fluffy gray feather lifts weightlessly from under the bower and drifts away forever.
garden chorus—
a solitary plucked quill
one muted voice
About the Author
Author of the debut novel ‘Twelfth House,’ and ‘Shaded Pergola,’ a collection of haiku and short poetry with original illustrations, Touchstone Award nominee E. C. Traganas has published in 150+ literary magazines and anthologies. She is the editor-in-chief of The Woodside Review, and enjoys a professional career as a Juilliard-trained concert pianist and composer. www.elenitraganas.com
