***
Descend/Deserve
Drug me
and put me in a uniform,
Your Honor,
make me
your sorry slave.
Punish me
when I want to flee,
Master,
praise me
to make me stay.
Tell me
how good I look
tell me
how well this fits me
and I will
fight it
fight you
fight for freedom
but just keep
drugging me
and putting me back
in black
or navy
or suede
in shoes
and vests
and belts
and suits
and I will be yours
eventually
I will learn to like it
eventually
I will get used it
eventually,
I will cozy down with
cuffs
at my collar
buckles
at my waist
watches
on my wrist,
I will crave
the warmth
of waistcoats
between my shoulder blades,
I will
be yours
to please you
I will start asking
for more colors,
patterns,
even fancier shoes
I will start needing
suits to sweep in
ties to dine in
repairs on my pockets
I’ve worn my hands through for years,
my mind will edge out
the scream of discomfort
for a sigh of pleasure
each time
the fabric
caresses my skin
and whenever
I do up a button
a zipper
a lace
I’ll love you
for guiding me
at this pace
until I could
walk the path
on my own,
until I could
keep myself sharp
and clean
like you want me–
thank you,
Witch Kook,
for your magic
to mold me
I should have trusted
from the start
that you knew
who I should be
but now that I am
your worker
your servant
your slave
I must thank you
by serving you
all of my days–
will you have me for a model
for a milker
for a maid,
will you use me as a baker
a cleaner
or an actor in your play,
I could make your baths
sew your garments
keep your pillows all arrayed,
be a clerk
or a waiter
or a fashionable aide–
Witch Kook
please
you have made me
please
use me
I can be of service
so much service
what is your request
what do you ask
of me
I will fulfill it
all for you.
***
Brainwash
They do
so much for me,
don’t they?
They’re completely
easy
to control.
This one
wrote that letter
two weeks
after I hired him
to sweep the stairs.
I guess
he ran off
and one of the staff
brought him back
and put him in
a new work uniform
and he loved it
so much
he started
spouting
poetry.
Must’ve known
that’s one of my
hobbies too
(of course everyone knows that,
I say it
at least
every third Wednesday
in a speech).
It’s weird,
though,
the letters they send
to their benevolent, all powerful god (me).
Like, when I was a girl,
my parents taught me to pray
but I don’t think
it came across this strange
to the being who might’ve heard.
(Tell me, God out there, are you upset
with me
for imitating you?
And did you get
prayers
soundin’ sappy
and obsessive
like this?)
The people of this city
believe whatever they’re told,
I just have to tell them
to report on strange behavior
from their neighbors,
I just have to show them
pictures of a couple ravaged cities down the coast
and tell them
an apocalypse wiped everyone out,
until I came from a magical realm
and created sapience from the forest
(all truths).
And if they don’t want
the apocalypse to return
they’d better enjoy only safe endeavors
like
farming
like
feeding me
like
joining the police
to put suspicious neighbors in jail
like
sweeping the stairs
like
fixing the air conditioning
like
fishing
like
joining the boxing matches
to entertain the citizens on weekends
like
hiring one of three literate people
who all live on the floor below me
to write them a marriage license
like
paying a fortune
to learn how to write and read
then work on the floor under me
recording the bets
on the boxing matches,
and reciting love letters,
or scribing prayers of praise,
but never
learning history,
because that’s my job,
to know the history of what came before
and to know who can’t be trusted
to hear about the apocalypse.
But when someone I do trust
does ask,
I tell them the truth;
I don’t know
what caused the ruin of the cities,
I was away in another realm,
so maybe
we’d better be cautious
of the dangers
lurking
outside our dear city.
So maybe
we’d better stay
with safe endeavors
and maybe
I need
more food
because if
anything happened
only I
could protect the city
with the police
as my backup.
And that
always gets them
to quit questioning
and go back
to farming
and praying
to me,
isn’t that
lovely?
***
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Jordyn Saelor 