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Poetry || SubmissionsFortunate WolfBy Andrew MacArthur And why did we make fun of him? Reaching, finally, the luckless capitol of our disloyal empire? Spending the dowry his mother paid by dying, on chocolate bars and rainswept carriage rides, until the money's gone? Then, entering the Men's Haus. And why did we laugh? If he preferred to fancy himself 'artist' and it might almost be true? In the cheap tiers at afternoon operas, Tristan brought him to tears: He could be grand in his rags! Later, it becomes serious. Shylock Of course, they feared me in Venice before the trial— a Jew with mystical powers to multiply ducats, I could not have bought a place with all my estates… much less dowered my Jessica on an honored Gentile. I had but to struggle, and threaten one of their favorites, ere they crushed me to their breast like the Prodigal child. Confederates and Exceptions 'Do you believe there were any Jews in the Confederacy? In the Confederate Army, I mean?' The question comes at me, over the long distance phone, from my brother in Milwaukee, We're discussing Probability. One wants to say, 'There's always exceptions!' And I try to see, among the tramping barefoot feet of Robert E. Lee's defiant legions, some reason, some cause. Why a young scholar's life would be offered. Nothing comes to me. Then I pause, to reflect on this July fourth, as I observe once-despised Viet vets. A young man often goes to war just to prove something of himself… in a war he wouldn't choose. Old Indian Defence Like the Anglican Bishop murdered between Lahore and Krishnapur, only our smallest moves as pawns are irrecoverable— compelled to advance along the narrowest paths or die before this ending is over… like ten thousand Sepoys killed in reprisal. What of us? We are pieces removed from the board, forever. Western This cowboy slit a throat. Oh long ago, before he came here, but this cowboy slit a throat. Many trails of hard luck led to the sleeping drunk. Cut his throat for a lucky twenty-dollar gold piece. The smile left is cheerful— peaceful like a fortunate wolf. Now he lives in this town, serves on posses and juries. Folks give a cowboy respect. His throat wears a necklace, tattoed invisibly: the noose he cheated. And he believes in frontier justice. Andrew MacArthur makes his home in Portland, Oregon. Today's Situation
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