“Columbusing”

by Ami Patel

I saw Columbus the other day in a shiny retro apothecary.

He eyed the knickknacks, picked up a porcelain teacup and set it down. 

It transformed into an ale jug, bulky clay made from feudal hands. 

He dove into bins of dried fruits and roots and emerged 

a few centuries later, mouth full of gold coins,

speaking the language of busted drums.

I saw Columbus slurping ramen at the oh-so-hip counter spot. 

He swiveled in his chair and tossed the broth on the floor. 

Servers slipped and fell as the broth seared a hole through shiny floors. 

Columbus stepped in the pulsing hole and whooshed back to Spain 

on a hoverboard crafted from used chopsticks and shattered bones. 

I saw Columbus trying on clothes at the boho chic boutique. 

He pulled out a tiny comb and scraped at the synthetic fabric 

until it became a bear’s fur. He grabbed the bear’s deflated cheeks 

snugly positioned it on his head. The bear’s teeth fused with his own. 

There was blood from a recent hunt. He wet his lips. Licked the blood away. 

Columbus grew to bear size, bit into racks of clothes, florescent lights. 

The crunch sounded like village babies crying in hunger. 

He grew bigger until his head bumped the ceiling. 

Cherry blossoms careened toward the floor, exploding into shrapnel. 

Everyone except Columbus lost an eye. Some lost two. 

Columbus calmly stared through his bear face,

deep into the furnace of the past, 

hungry for the flavor of the next history.