Issue 11, December 2013
{ Western Grammarian }
by Rajiv Mohabir
You open your front door to necrosis. You open your door to the muscle wind in yellow on black you're dead jack. You pick up the coral snake but you fork your tongue and say two things at once, Finally I've got you without the books. and, There is no outside outside. You open the door and you open the door. A man in the forest banking the house is a swami. He says chair and four oak legs and a seat and a barred back fall from his mouth on which he perches. He's a swami in a grammar tome, in a leather bomber jacket even as the moon shoots icy blanks all night. You say, o balle balle and it comes out, o giggle giggle. Some paddy of him sprouts in you like hair in the mirror you hold up. Synchronized, you both say, dandelion and your tongue becomes a feathered papus and his dog piss. You sing a lullaby the world is so faceted, a single word. You fall awake into a dream of meaning. You open your front door to Shut the Front Door. There is no outside outside.

Rajiv Mohabir, a VONA and Kundiman fellow, is the author of the chapbooks na bad-eye me (Pudding House Press, 2010) and na mash me bone (Finishing Line Press, 2011). His poetry is published or forthcoming from journals such as Prairie Schooner, Drunken Boat, Great River Review, PANK, Assacarus, and Lantern Review. Nominated for a Pushcart in 2010, he received his MFA in Poetry and Translation from at Queens College, CUNY where he was Editor in Chief of Ozone Park Journal (2012–2013). He is currently pursuing a PhD in English at the University of Hawaii, Manoa.