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If You See My Dog, The Name Is Moon by Pierre Gazarian, 6x9 paperback, 112 pages. Born in Paris, he came to the United States at the age of fifteen. His short plays have been read or staged at John Jay College, UBU Repertory Theater, and the United Nations. He was a columnist for The Suffolk Times and the columns are compiled in a book A Seagull on my Roof.
Spring
You break the Easter egg I gave you.
A bird flies from your hand,
a blur of red
that goes from tree to tree,
then to the sky,
and becomes the sun.
A rooster crows.
The day begins.
You made the earth.
You smile.
You’re six-years old.
7-Eleven
A trip to the 7-Eleven,
it’s like a ferry-boat ride:
you’ve got people with their ears sticking out
and tobacco up their noses.
The girls have incredible buttocks,
pants as tight as Saran Wrap on chicken.
Just to put your hand on their bare legs,
because you’re so lonely, nobody waiting for you,
not even a dog on the hood of your care,
waiting for you.
You’ve got some squishy donuts in one hand,
waiting on line,
nobody waiting for you,
and there’s that girl at the counter,
onions and crushed roses.
“Izatall?” she asks.
You say, “No . ..Well . . .Yes . . .”
There’s a 300-pound man in back of you,
with 3 six-packs and 2 tons of pretzels,
smoke coming out his nostrils,
breathing down your neck,
and you know he’s got some great tattoos
with pirates’ heads and crossed bones
and all that sort of thing.
And there’s the cashier girl
waiting for an answer and it looks like
she’s got underwear on and nothing else,
with her Saran Wrap ass and her arms
like two fat snakes coming at you,
no better flame in Bombay bars,
and you throw yourself at her feet and bark,
“Marry me, woman, marry me.”
Mother Earth
The wind rolls by,
freight train of broken forests,
rolls by,
thunder of leaves,
rolls by,
bull clouds,
moon-eyed,
promises in the sky,
rain stones blemishing
the skin of the earth.
Mountains crashing,
world upside down,
wild African dogs
over flying gazelles
torn to shreds,
whales giving birth
in shallow waters,
their luminous cry,
the call of angels at night,
baby baboons in the shade
of their mother’s arch,
trees charging in the season of gift,
ahead, the menacing fires,
the precipice,
the takeoff of gulls,
fly my soul fly,
wish your wings of clay,
swift to the top
of the song
where she waits
with her robe opened
at all hours.
Website © 2022-2023 by Walter E. Harris III.
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