I Don't Like Fetuses I Want Them All To Die
Brett Axel
If every fetus died every time
After three years, there'd be no crying babies on buses
not too many diapers to change, no highchairs to wipe down,
hundreds of wicker basinets would be lined up at yardsales
desperate to become someone's outdoor planter.
If every fetus died every time
After six years, there'd be no toddlers no sticky candied fingers,
some candies would cease to exist (like wax lips)
there would be no "why" game, no telly tubbies
or blue clues, no one ever asking if we are there yet.
If every fetus died every time
After twelve years, Adam Sandler would be flipping burgers
at a McDonalds as he was born to, no one
would step on a hotwheels car on route to a bathroom
there would hardly be need for migraine medication at all.
If every fetus died every time
After twenty-four years there'd be no one we would need
to watch our language in front of, no more Captain Underpants books
(though Dr. Suess and Harry Potter will live on and on) Everyone
would be a potential sex partner no one will be left out of the movies...
If every fetus died every time
After forty-eight years no one would be left
for a younger woman, no one would be made a naive pawn
of an unscrupulous demagogue beauty would be judged
by who you are inside finally love could be trusted...
If every fetus died every time
After ninety-six years animals would outnumber humans, could easily
overpower whoever was left reclaim the world that is rightfully theirs
see an end to pollution, a beginning to self-cleaning streams and forests
All of the Earth would return to the splendor it was always meant to be.
brett axel ©2003
Kaddish
Brett Axel
My little brother and I: children of a marriage you, my grandmother,
did not approve of. A marriage born of rebellion and resentment
of old ways (as if new ways would be an improvement). You taught me
not to let my brother have some of my candy, then take it back.
That would make me an Indian
giver. You apologize a not really sorry apology and say it is okay
because my Jewish half makes up for it, I don't even look Indian,
if I don't tell anyone, they won't know. So I don't tell anyone.
The only anything Indian I own is my great-grandfather's ceremonial dress.
He left it to me when he died. My little brother got his medicine pouch.
I was so angry at him at the time. He valued that leather bag like you do
the bronze menorah you brought back from Israel. But there was no treasure
inside. A feather, a stone, a twig and what looked like a ball of hair.
What a rip, I said, and you agreed. My outfit was a much better inheritance.
I could wear it in a school pageant. The only time I ever cursed at you
was when you suggested I try it on. It is a new day, you taught me:
Indians have a place in modern America. But I'd seen that already.
A place at the table for Thanksgiving; a place at the county fair beading
quaint purses; a place in front of the trading post holding cigars in my hand
Not as your co-worker. Not as your neighbor. Not in your synagogue.
Not in your family.
I am an adult before I understand that Indian giver means
to give the way you would give to an Indian. The way our land
was taken and given and taken again. The way healthcare
was given and our women were sterilized without being asked
without being told. The way cold nights on the reservation
were met by the gift of blankets infected with smallpox.
I am an adult before I let go of your hatred of my Indian heritage,
before I realize that hatred isn't my own. And it is longer still
before I let go of my parent's resentment of old ways Jewish and Indian.
Today I am unrolling my great-grandfather's ceremonial dress.
I will be wearing it for the next seven days, reciting the prayers
of my ancestry for you, my grandmother. You lived long and taught me
a many lessons, some I had to discover were wrong. I honor your passing
from this to a more enlightened world as an Indian sitting Shivah.
brett axel ©2003
