In Flight from the Green Forest
In the green forest of Petropolis The Great Lady of the Madrugada Walked with me the boundaries of her fazenda.
Toucans watched the paths that joined the valleys. Her great-grandfather freed the nation's slaves And it had come to this. Every man we met Had a gun on him somewhere. 'Rain°, How goes it with the bloodhounds?' They're fine, madam.'
On the wall of the floresta hung quarezmas Like purple china. In the late evening I stood on the verandah outside her window And watched the rain reflect her bedroom lamps That were never dimmed, Below me on the lawn Part of the night moved as a man looked up.
I saw his oilskins gleam but not the barrel Of his matt-black shotgun while he checked me out.
Next day, a car with an armed driver Took me to Rio. Between midnight and 3 a.m.
In the madrugada, I would often phone her From wherever I was in the world, And sometimes we would write, but she Was too much for me. Her little empire Was the only part of her ruined country that worked, And she needed her own air force. What do I look like, A contract killer? I've just got killer contracts.
I never shot anything that wasn't cardboard With a paper face. 'Lady,' I would whisper, 'It's time you slept.' As if she could do so safely, Or even a fortress could be built to last Where men, like ants in a disaster movie, Can strip a culture bare-boned in five minutes.
Previous page
