The Congo – Vachel Lindsay
Drowsy Oregon drizzle fogs classroom windows
as Arnold slinks to the back for a morning nap
and Sandra’s crinoline leg-brushes the hot guy,
as she sashays through the jungle of desks
and giggles, sitting with the cool clique, pretending
to feel less awkward than the rest of us.
Mr. Zimmerman strides in wearing his plaid bowtie
and drops his briefcase, smelling of pastrami,
next to his scarred black desk. Not cool
but who is? I slouch in my chair wondering
what mystery is for lunch, as he praises
some strange-named poet, Vachel—like Rachel,
but a guy? As Zim prepares to read, what’s left
of my mind slithers into inertia—broken asunder by
his explosive Fat black bucks
I jump in my seat knowing teachers don’t say
such racist things, but the rhythm talons me fast,
Zim’s loud in a wine barrel room,
Barrel-house kings, with feet unstable,
Sagged and reeled and pounded on the table—
even wakes Arnold. Beat and volume slap the walls
and reverberate, THEN I SAW THE CONGO, CREEPING.
The room recedes and jungle humidity mists my skin and
I flinch at BLOOD screamed the skull-faced, lean witch-doctors,
then soothe, when a golden track cuts across the chalkboard
and I see the Coal-black maidens with pearls in their hair.
I nearly scream when Leopold does,
Hear how the demons chuckle and yell
Cutting his hands off, down in Hell.
Be careful what you do,
Or Mumbo-Jumbo will hoo-doo you.
Then Mr. Zim bellows, Class dismissed!
Still reeling from what I don’t yet know
is a racist defense of colonialism
and slavery—still pulsating with the hoo-doo rhythm
of music woven with beauty and horror.
I zombie to the cafeteria, miss the door,
and turn to say something to someone,
but forget, grab my food, don’t chew.
At fifteen, I didn’t know
what one word beating another could do.
