What about the Muslim boy who brass hooks the elephant 

And Teaches me

To drive

Her behind the ears of her giant thump head.

What about the Muslim boy who I wish to be unleashed upon

What about the Muslim man  who

waits to ruin me

with the guilt of generations, White man pays.

White man pays, white man pays, white man pays because he is a greedy pig.

Granny and I sit looking for tigers on top of swaying backed thump thump head

Boy's feet kick kick bare foot behind her ear.

Good natured beast bends

To his Ankus hook. He turns around white teeth smile at me

I am shrill 

Sweat drips down boney spine of mine because I am thin and only thirty birthdays old Looking

Looking for tigers in a weak jungle,not as it once was

But now as it is when white man pays.

White man pays to see

The mythical tigers been shot for mantles waiting.

I tell granny to whisper incase she frightens him,

the tiger

Where are you?

More sweat in this limp empty jungle, shirts damp, Granny mops her brow.

He lets me drive now.

I climb forward, Granny breaths sharply 

As I sit legs touching the boy

Astride the elephant's neck, touching.

I pretend that Granny is not there,

that Granny is not on the seat behind us,

that Granny is not wearing her white lace gloves,

that Granny is not clutching her ridiculous pocket book.

"Isn't this lovely darling?, Isn' t this lovely....?"

"SHHHH" I snap because she is ruining my mental fuck with the Muslim boy.

There is nothing in the jungle, only birds make noises.

We see some dung, and a slidey jawed water buffalo  too sleepy now.

Not creeping alive with sounds and electric tricks high wire tip toeing, snap, no 

But Once upon a time she slept sweetly on British raj pillow

With mummy and daddy and a ghost who stood at the top of the stairs, the one who looked out from the window, 

the one you could only see from the  lawn

Once she had servant girls to brush her hair

Once she had boys to saddle her pony

Once she had cooks and maids and jewels and parties and feather clips to pin on.

But like on a freeway so fast...

Don't look! It's dead.... no it's just a palm tree frond but one always looks for guts when the world changes.

Independence sent the white man packing

Servants became masters

The masters escaped some with their lives

 and some with their pocket books.

© 2017 Amelia Fleetwood.  Ojai, California 

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