Matthew Sweeney

If I begged you to, would you hitchhike to the ice-sculpture factory, where the drunken cow was just presented, and the sleeping horse was celebrated? Ah, those caught animals, where else would they be paraded? I visualise you sitting on a black camel, wearing a red fedora, and a maroon, velvet dress. It would be sunset, rosé wine would be flowing, the monkey would be dancing to zither music. I picture you laughing, then directing the singing to include a hymn to a snail, that small fellow who brings his home with him — easily shown in ice. And maybe an encore to a frog who sits on a plate, waiting to dance.

When first they ushered me into that hall To take my place on a cheap fold-out seat, My eyes clamped shut, and so missed all The conjured stillness of the school: young feet Unshuffled, heads dropped down in donned respect, And teachers, too — attendant, cramped in rows Of less observant hush. A time to reflect On whispers, echoed hymns, light-cold windows. In truth, I pitied most the ones on-stage: for though I felt secure behind my teen- Devout, dismissive, atheistic rage, I couldn’t quite pretend I hadn’t seen the way they thumbed the book — unsure of it, The prayer, the weary Morning, all. Please sit.