Colonialism Pop-Up Book

You are too late. I have already arrived in this land and replicated my thoughts and replicated my thoughts and replicated my thoughts and replicated my thoughts and

torture means I’m in control. I’m from a much better place. I tell kids that when you crank native heads up like jack-in-the-box, confetti pops out. Yay! It’s the way God intended

when he whistled in English. Once upon a time there was Middle Eastern God and he was smelly and feeble and Western God sailed to Heaven in gingerbread

galleons made of carnival cake and napalm taffy and gum sticks and switchblade harps and imagination of a new Heaven, a tasty Heaven. New candy homes were built on top

of angel sinew. Shacks were melted into gold and marshmallow bones, and saints gave everyone the boot. Finally, a place where white citizens could pray.

 

Christmas Village Campaign

You cannot escape
December. Plowing

side streets will leave you
crystallized as a crushing delivery

of snow punishes the town
once again. The mayor’s

black slacks and brown bubble
jacket make his wispy hair

resemble hot chocolate steam.
He abandoned his mansion

years ago to lift
a bright toddler

illuminating Frosty’s
grin with a broken carrot root.

Since November will never
return, no one dares

challenge him in a primary
or even engage in congenial

debate. He forever holds
the child aloft underneath

the Star of David and popcorn
string in a charming campaign

scene. The mayor
smiles at everything.

 

 

 

Jeffrey H. MacLachlan also has recent work in New Ohio Review, Eleven Eleven, The William & Mary Review, among others. He teaches literature at Georgia College & State University. He can be followed on Twitter @jeffmack.