Raksha (Jungle Books)

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i play Louis Prima at dinner
fusilli red sauce and red wine and i tell her
this guy singing hear this guy singing that ol’ black magic?
listen
hear him?
this guy singing this is King Louie
in your movie
that big galoot
she says laughing
she loves new words like
galoot
bamboozled
and the new nickname i stole and gave her:
Madame Tutli Putli
no the other one she says say the other one
Trini Peperoncini
aah hahahaha
who’s your favorite from the jungle book Trini?
Kaa
seriously not Mowgli?
no
Kaa
why
he’s a scoundrel!
he’s a charmer
yea and a scoundrel
for an odd reason
the ferrous taste of liver
sneaks into my mouth from the back of the throat
and i am reminded of Charlie Chaplin
eating the soles of his shoes in Gold Rush
When you’re wounded and left on Afghanistan’s plains
and the women come out to cut up what remains
jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains
and go to your gawd like a soldier
what the heck was that she says
blow out your brains?
nothing Madame Tutli Putli
eat your liver

(Author’s Notes)

Moldova

Three of them were beating the horse with branches the size of small tree trunks. The other one, the man with the crumpled fedora, stood in the courtyard sharpening something that looked like a machete. The peasants had been drinking and playing backgammon. Something must have happened in the middle of their games. The playing boards were open on the large outdoor table and wooden pieces were strewn about carelessly on and off their respective triangles. Small glasses of red wine were left suddenly and un-finished. Ugly black flies were circling, sometimes landing and probing the drying juice on the rims. The animal was down and foaming at the mouth from the effort to live. The men were relentless. The blows came to the head two by two, but the animal refused to die. One of them was swinging at the legs and the spine. We could hear the bones snap from across the road.
—It takes two men and my Da to bring down the pig at Christmas, Cesar said and spat into the dusty road.
I did the same. I don’t know why. Probably because it made me look tough watching the bloody scene.
—Come on, let’s go, he said. —We can steal some boysenberries from the mayor’s tree up the road there.
—He’s got hounds loose in the yard.
—They’s branches hanging down over the fence and into the road. Fair game. I can hoist you on my back so’s you can pick’em. Or you can hoist me. I don’t care.
—I don’t care either.
He took out a wrinkled cigarette from his pocket.
—Whaddya think they’re gonna do with the horse? I said.
—I don’t know. Stew, probably.
—Yea.
—Here. He gave me the cigarette. —Pavel rolled it, he said. It’s not that Marasesti shit you buy at the cooperative.
—All right.
—You can chew mint aftewards, if you’re scared they’ll smell it. It’s all over the fields. If you’re worried.
—All right.
—Don’t worry.
—I’m not.
And I spat into the dust and held my hands in my pockets like I’d seen Bogart do in the movies.

(Author’s Notes)