Soiree Fantastique

Soirée Fantastique

Houdini arrived first, with Antigone on his arm.
Someone should have told her it was rude
to chase my brother in circles with such a shiny shovel.
She only said, I’m building the man a funeral.
But last I measured, my brother was still a boy.
The doorbell chimes and chimes.
Other guests come
in and out, snorting, mouths lathered, eyes spinning
like spirogyras. They are starving, bobbing their big heads,
ready for a party. They keep saying it too, Man, we’re ready
for a party! In their glorious twirl and dervish,
none of them notice this is no dinner party. This is
a jalopy carousel—and we are
dizzy. We are
here to eat the horses.
There are violins playing. The violins are on fire—
they are passed around until we’re all smoking. Jesus coughs,
climbs down from the cross of railroad ties above the table.
He’s a regular at these carrion revelries, and it’s annoying
how he turns the bread to fish, especially when we have
sandwiches.
I’ve never had the guts
to ask Jesus, Why?
Old Houdini can’t get over ’em—the holes in each of Jesus’ hands—
he’s smitten, and drops first a butter knife, then a candelabra
through the gaping in the right hand. He holds Jesus’ left palm
up to his face, wriggles his tongue through the opening,
then spits, says, This tastes like love. He laughs hysterically,
Admit it Chuey,
between you and me,
someone else is coming.
Antigone is back, this time with the green-handled garden spade.
Where is your brother? she demands. She doesn’t realize
this is not my brother’s feast—he simply set the table.
Poor Antigone. Bury the horses,instead, I tell her.
What will we eat then? she weeps, not knowing weeping
isn’t what it used to be, not here.
Poor, poor, Antigone.
I look around for Houdini to get her out of here.
He’s escaped. In the corner, Jesus covers his face with his hands—
each hole an oubliette—I see right through them:
None of us belong here. I’m the only one left to say it.
I ease the spade from her hand. I explain:
We aren’t here to eat, we are being eaten.
Come, pretty girl. Let us devour our lives.

Natalie Diaz


Natalie Diaz was born and raised on the Fort Mojave Indian Reservation in Needles, California. After playing professional basketball in Europe and Asia for four years, she returned to Old Dominion University and completed her MFA, in 2007. Diaz has been awarded both the 2007 Pablo Neruda Prize in Poetry and the 2007 Tobias Wolff Fiction Prize. She lives in Surprise, Arizona.