Poetry of Issue #7        Page 9

Going Native

Inept hunter, without compass, out of Cuzco;
the tribesmen laugh as he slides
on the jungle’s muddy floor.

Daubed with red paint,
he stretches his flab on a flat rock in moonlight.
He’s shed hipster jeans,
wants to shed his New York skin.

They touch him, love him—in sleeping piles—
ignorant stranger
who hasn’t learned to use a wooden bow.

When they raid their neighbors,
eat their grilled flesh,
his sigh of contentment is louder
than it’s ever been.
He wants to be native, not tourist,
bites into a heart.

They were already dead after all,
he’ll say when he comes home from a place
where outsiders are usually never seen again.

Old and trembling with Parkinson’s,
he returns to them, fearful the members
of the tribe won’t want to remember.
They don’t recognize him.
He’s fearful they’re no longer naked.
They’re wearing jeans.