Chris Haug

There are men here and there to whom the whole of life is like an after-dinner hour with a cigar: easy, pleasant, empty, perhaps enlivened by some fable of strife . . .

—Joseph Conrad

Defender of junior executives and over-forty

gym-rats, you range wide over our jungled

streets, patrolling our every storefront ensuring

that both bears and bulls stay safely in their dens.

Slayer of the numbskulled, you’ve mastered splitting

the hairs of every hairline, no matter how humble,

for while one hand keepeth both the fire and flood

at bay, the other gooseth the discontented housewife

even as her dough-brained husband boils

in a hot-tub of aged bourbon, benevolently

sacrificing himself to the primitives who would have

inevitably run off with both their fortunes

had you not been here to save them.

Cow with Parasol

Being ogled is nothing new

when you’re a flower-loving cow

with a furry blue face and tiny red wings,

but hiding isn’t the reason

for the parasol (in case you’re

wondering, I just like it is all).

When they passed on the path

high above me, the sun, higher still,

was mostly blocked, and for a moment

I felt safe—which was puzzling

since I was sure they were looking

and probably making silent notes

about my extravagances.

Then, unavoidably, the sun moved,

and I knew I’d soon see

them, and not just their silhouettes

but everything from their ill-fitting shoes

right down to their tar-

stained moustaches—

and so, I’m left with no

other choice: move on

and dream of finding a cave so dark

you’d never know if the colorless

moss was smiling back or snarling.

Stiletto

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing . . .

Walking up an empty downtown street,

I’m holding a snow-white 20-ounce

paper cup emblazoned with a fair-trade, organic

hunter-green siren who sings herself

into a short-skirted, six-foot-tall barista

with sad, smoky eyes who overflows

her corporate-issued button-up

and weeps as she gently chokes

the stringy neck of a grease-stained landfill

attendant. Loosening her grip, she smiles,

and whispers, “Maybe everything is double-edged . . .”

Descending from the cup (or maybe,

it’s my mind, or the ocean; who can know?),

she’s now the petite, raven-haired woman

standing beside me wearing acutely illogical pumps

which are silver tipped and rival the skyline.

They stab the shadows of her legs

as she struts confidently away from me

before pausing on the corner as the last shaft

of sunlight disappears behind fiscal temples.

A tiny music seems to swell as she tilts

her head heavenward to gather

up all of the whispers of the City of Man,

conjuring them into a thin film

which winds itself around her

until she’s iridescent—all fiery-black

lipstick wrapped in feathers,

balanced on a single limb—

some sort of strange crane,

a totem of pain and beauty

perched on a lily pad

of garbage-stained concrete.

A Kiss on her Birthday

She can make out

what is probably a fence

from the corner

of her one opened eye.

But with only one eye open,

she cannot be sure;

two might better grasp

what floats almost invisible

under the white window shade.

It’s just like in Chagall’s painting:

see, his happiness

doesn’t need to be deduced.

With his eyes closed

and head twisting backward

he’s left continuity behind;

gravity’s hold holds him not.

He’s of the sublime—a gentle kite

longing to be stuck in her tree.

In her hand the flowers

he bought her,

on the table a cake,

knife and money-purse.

She can feel them all,

all straining for another dimension,

but depth is illusive.

And that one eye,

open and empty,

keeps staring out at who knows what—

not him, that’s sure.

Maybe this bothers him,

but with his eyes closed,

will he ever know?

Perhaps; outside, that fence—

it persists

regardless

of the cake and kisses

and the floating husband.

Chris Haug teaches writing and literature somewhere in Middle America. His work has appeared in Scissors and Spackle and Punchnel’s. He holds degrees from Central College and the University of Northern Iowa and is currently enrolled in Pacific University’s MFA program.