Poetry
Transformational Grammars
by Walter Bargen
In Lingala, a slow river lexicon,
a dense jungle syntax,
a parrot squawk punctuation, an antelope tone.
Deep in the dripping
leave's syllabic shadows, yesterday
and tomorrow are mired in today.
Epidemics of equatorial heat
disease each day. Night festers
in a deafening screech and wail. In the floral-print
shirt lying on a dirt floor,
a mildewed anguish grows. Once Congo, then
Zaire, Congo again transforms
colonial decay into uprooted rain forest.
A cup breaks in the sink,
handle snapping off.
For a few hours it sits on
the counter waiting to be glued,
but then is thrown out. I hear the painted
tropical butterflies, iridescent
against a glazed white background, flutter against
the trash can lid—wing beats
over a river of refuse. Tomorrow and yesterday
breaking down today.