[Apologies to Margaret Atwood]
Snowman wakes before dawn,
laying fully exposed in a tree
molting freely, swathed in stained bed sheets
like an alien Christ;
cratered pit of a city with fuming steroids
strewn with the skeletons and leftover smut,
nightly picked over by malevolent dogs,
in a quarry for Snowman’s mangos.
The last baseball hat ever worn
was an authentic replica Red Sox cap
clung to his sun brunt head
like a crimson crown: and the last joke was obscure.
He wished he was still asleep.
The godless MarvelMen trade him fish for mysticism
like naughty children, and ask the fleshy birdman for
secrets the Almighty Crake has whispered into his broken pocket watch.
Who doesn’t understand war
or faith, or toast, or free will,
or evil, or good, or obedience,
or pain, or meat, or death, or garbage: simply
don’t starve, don’t ask questions,
don’t leave the garden, don’t eat that,
don’t believe Snowman—and revel in the thankless ruins of an illegible history,
and Crake doesn’t care.