7 oclock news
7 O’clock News, The Interview
by sergio ortiz
Rubin changed clothes as soon as we got home
from Sunday school: toreror, mariachi,
prime ballerina. It was difficult to keep
a straight face in the middle of an argument
with a little cross-dresser
playing in front of you.
I stopped pushing salvation
on inner city streets after Rubin’s funeral.
Maples lining the road home
took me back to the kimono and the baby,
anniversary gifts from Tent.
In autumn, he started collecting
the feathers in autumn. Fourteen, he was just a baby.
We found the first one outside a Mud Wrestling
Bar & Grill. It had the Lords Prayer written on the barbs.
A few weeks later they were coming from all over the world.
They were close. Tent loved his son.
In the living room. He threw the rope over the… and…
I had the living room remodeled. Rubin’s death aged Tent.
Excuse me, I need to put on the kimono,
cover the boils on my arms with the red
yellow leaves of the sash.
Damn! I gonna have to find this Mud Wrestling Bar & Grill…it’s bound to beat Hooters!
But sorry, this is a serious (with sprinkling of humor) poem about the death (suicide?) of an estranged transsexual (i believe). Poem as news interview as backdrop is different, and hoists me into unique perspective otherwise wouldn’t have thought about. That 2nd sentence really grabbed me: “It was difficult to keep a straight face in the middle of an argument with a little cross-dresser playing in front of you.” However, on second thought, the poem says Rubin was young and came from Sunday School which leads me to think the kid might not be too old, in which case play-acting play-dressing wouldn’t be too uncommon. So perhaps the main character was not a transsexual and perhaps his death was not suicide but accident. Hmm. But then the poem says: “Fourteen, he was just a baby.” Young, but not so young, which directs me to my initial observation.
Watson, i do say, you’re supposed to bring me my gin before we begin. FEATHERS. What are the feathers? hmm. If the kid was a little younger he might be naive to think making an outfit of feathers could allow him to fly, thus bringing about his untimely death due to gravity…but then there’s the rope in the living room. This is fun. I hope I am basking in the glowlite that is this work and not beating it with a hose to entice a confession. Hey, it’s the Guatanamo approach to poetry. Feedback anyone? Mudwrestling anyone [ladies]?