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.