W. Tracy Dillon

Devoured

Zombi, the title whereby he was called,
is the name for the Deity, in the Angolan tongue.
---- Robert Southey, History of Brazil (1810)


We were made in the jungle
In a palm forest’s heart
Where the end of your mind cannot
Make its way through interiors.

God Zombi people
Our Infestation moves among
Dark palms. Swelling and numerous.
Roving. Ravenous.

Let our freedom offend
And our hordes take shape
In dreams in imagination
Let the fear fatten
Those tasty brains.

We are equally formidable
En masse or alone
Like disease our company
Gathers and grows.

When you destroy us
We get back up
List to the left and
Slouch to the right but
Our legs don’t break anymore.

When we catch you
We will eat you
Lust for a fine meal
Is what you become
In the heart of the palm forest.

Far off you see us coming
Ah, but you don’t see it coming.
Our shuffle is ridiculous.
So slow. Time passes.
And you keep standing, watching.

Go for the head.
You might get a few of us.
But it won’t matter much.
We’re already dead.
What you going to do?
Lilitu

and the screech owl shall rest there,
and shall find for herself a quiet dwelling
---- Isaiah 34:14


I was made in the garden
          and I want to nest

the eternal dirt nap
          strikes me as best

but age into epoch
          each one comes and goes

so what do I do
          with the girls and the boys?

the thought of my promise
          makes the thin drip

another one swells
          and becomes thick

my flight stains the sky
          pleasing their eyes

far off my coming shines
          I speak every tongue

omnipotent   radiant   divine
          and still can’t say no
“Satan”

when I viewed the bliss of my protectors,
the bitter gall of envy rose within me
---- Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (1818)


Pitch:
A dark and dreary
November night.
Doctor Agonistes
Inventing life

From lifeless things
Strapped to a bed.
Then a dull eye opens
And things up get shook.

They call me Creature
Call me a Fiend
They call me Monster
Call me His name.

That’s not my name.
That’s not my name.
That’s not my name.
That’s not my name.

I was a mistake
Made in a lab
A test tube baby
Titanic man.

You know my name.
          C’mon!
You know my name.
          Go on and say it.
          Give me my name.

I want high language
I want a wife
I want to bring fire
And gift the sex.

I want to breathe life
Animate clay
Just like my Daddy
Back in the day.

Give back my foresight
Return my chains
I want to break them
So they’ll be mine.

I want to beat god
Before I’m gone
Might as well be one
For all I’ve done.

Want what I want.
          It’s over there
You don’t deserve it
          Just bring it here.

I want your liver
A bird ate mine
Another transplant
Will do just fine.

I want your parts.
         I want your fire.
I want your sex.
         I want them all.

But I have fame
Yeah I have fame
So open wide
And scream my

That’s not my name.
That’s not my name.
That’s not my name.
That’s not my name.
Tracy is a former educator in Portland, Oregon. He lives on a permaculture farm with his family about two hours southwest depending on the time and season, city traffic, and country jams. His work has appeared in Beyond Words, Louisiana Literature, Fiction Southeast, Windfall, and academic journals that he would rather not think about. In his free time, he hits the beach, takes walks, stargazes, and doesn’t play the guitar very well.

Banner Art:
from Owl, Bow Porcelain Factory, London, England, c. 1760

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