issue 36 > poetry > slavitt

Their aggressively wide, white, gauzy pantaloons
and broad scarlet sashes mock the precision
drills in which their stomping squads weave
patterns some Busby Berkley officer

dreamt up in a kif-graced moment.  Algeria's
zouaoua tribes dressed in such a way,
but without the suggestions Europeans took
from the farouche yet clearly feminine

extravagance: that resonant, grace note
acknowledges the eroticism of killing. 
The Janissaries' preposterous plumed hats
proclaim likewise a sinister, epicene

disregard of limit--but when they die,
those uniforms can serve as lamb chop frills
with which rôtisseurs frequently decorate
the dead meat displayed on their chased salvers.






Also by David Slavitt:

The Right to Oblivion