White People

by Brett Rutherford

O whiter than white,

Boccaccio and Rabelais,

Petronius and Shakespeare

all got it right. Centaurs

we are, and not just down-

below. You think you know

your pedigree, but no,

methinks it is not so.

Among the married

Anglo-Saxon women,

Brit and American,

one out of every four

of babies born

are not the child

of the woman's husband.

Smug warrior:

does the pizza boy smile

when he passes you?

What of Fedex and UPS —

that guy-to-guy wink

from the drivers? What

do you think that is about?

And why does Jesus,

the gardener, sing that way?

And if your wife

should take a lover,

why should it be

your fraternity brother,

a golf club life member,

a Harvard club lounger?

Immigrants, you know,

are experts at seduction,

foreplay and extended

ecstasies. Their genes

are desperate to conquer.

And guard as you will

your own palace,

who guarded your mother,

your grandmother, and all

the women of your line?

Most played a jest

in the mating pool.

Most had a favorite child

they bore because

they wanted to.

Roman and Viking,

proud Scot and Norman

invader, Angle of old,

Saxon of German forests,

your line is laid waste

by Italy and Africa,

Spain and Oaxaca.

The bed was battlefield.

Your bored consort

opened the gate

for your welcome
replacement.