You haven’t finished your ape, said mother to father,
who had monkey hair and blood on his whiskers.
I’ve had enough monkey, cried father.
You didn’t eat the hands, and I went to all the
trouble to make onion rings for its fingers, said mother.
I’ll just nibble on its forehead, and then I’ve had enough,
I stuffed its nose with garlic, just like you like it, said
Why don’t you have the butcher cut these apes up? You lay
the whole thing on the table every night; the same fractured
skull, the same singed fur; like someone who died horribly. These
aren’t dinners, these are post-mortem dissections.
Try a piece of its gum, I’ve stuffed its mouth with bread,
Ugh, it looks like a mouth full of vomit. How can I bite into
its cheek with bread spilling out of its mouth? cried father.
Break one of the ears off, they’re so crispy, said mother.
I wish to hell you’d put underpants on these apes; even a
jockstrap, screamed father.
Father, how dare you insinuate that I see the ape as anything
more thn simple meat, screamed mother.
Well what’s with this ribbon tied in a bow on its privates?
Are you saying that I am in love with this vicious creature?
That I would submit my female opening to this brute? That after
we had love on the kitchen floor I would put him in the oven, after
breaking his head with a frying pan; and then serve him to my husband,
that my husband might eat the evidence of my infidelity … ?
I’m just saying that I’m damn sick of ape every night,
ape, russell edson
Sibylle Baier // Driving
how mohsen makhmalbaf depicts being born in his film gabbeh (1996)
neak sre / rice people, directed by rithy panh
faraualla - sind
someone lives in my house
at night he opens the refrigerator
inhaling the summer’s coriander
on radio kashmir he hears announced
all search has been abandoned
for last year’s climbers
on nanga parbat
my house breaks
with the sympathy of neighbors
this is his moment
in my room
he sits at the table
practices my signature answers my mail
he wears the cardigan
my mother knit for my return
the mirror gives up
my face to him
he calls my mother in my voice
he is breathless to tell her tales
in which i was never found
survivor, agha shahid ali