MFA/MFYou
Two Poems by Donald Illich
When I Was Nine
In
Baptists held an ice cream social
near the university.
My Dad was studying in the library,
knee deep in books
that were trying to drown him.
Mom had laundry to hang, a meal
to cook from old meat and stale bread.
My brothers and I stood
in high grass, waiting in line
for Dixie Cups of vanilla,
when I heard rattling by my legs.
A water moccasin,
a slick intertube with fangs,
curled around my left foot.
I couldn't say anything.
Staring at its unmoving eyes,
its hypnotic flickering tongue,
I imagined the future
continuing without me,
my parents leaving the state, divorcing,
siblings playing soccer, stealing cars.
It was my death
that scarred them, flavoring
every moment with absence,
freeze burning their lives.
My brothers noticed the snake,
Mark running for help
while Robb stayed with me.
“It's going to be O.K., Don.
If you don't move
it won't bite.”
The preacher arrived with a rifle,
kept in his pick-up truck.
“I got be very accurate, son.
Don't flinch.”
With one shot
he obliterated its head.
I started shaking so hard
I couldn't stop
until my parents showed up.
When we left, my Dad lying
about coming to church next Sunday,
the preacher gave me a Bible.
“You looked at evil, son.
You looked at it and won.”
At the Office of Marvelous Creatures
The unicorn buzzes in the virgin
who stops at its desk to ride it
to the copy room. A centaur
drinks water from a paper cup,
staples documents with swats
of its tale. Two medusae turn
the donuts they serve to stone.
No coworkers want any of them.
A bunyip must scream approval
of any purchases over $100.
Chimeras handle publicity
efforts for a new quest program.
Heroes must sign gods' contracts
in triplicate, account for items
lost while destroying monsters,
discuss their journeys with bards
who help with their presentations
of mythic stories to the board.
The snake that wraps itself
around the earth, sits at the end
of a table, next to a dragon
that guards the golden apples.
They will vote after the hero
leaves, deciding to squeeze
his blood for copier ink,
promote his legend through ads
in the latest story of Homer,
or hang him in the frozen sky,
a constellation that loves fighting
creatures just like themselves.
Donald Illich has published poetry in The 
