by Brett Rutherford
O whiter than white,
Boccaccio and Rabelais,
Petronius and Shakespeare
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.
replacement.
