Genghis Khan

1.

Nobody knows that Genghis Khan
none of us, none of his billions 

who hunger for his return
winter and summer,
who howl at first sight of him
like dogs at the moon,

who fuel his jeremiads
with our shrieks of agreement
who love how he sneers
in a quietened tone,

his shrug of one shoulder
his truth-telling eyes
focused with fury
at the scum who would destroy him,

screech at his hilarious
monkey mimicry
of a pleading old woman
he raped in Jerusalem,

none of us has a clue

2.
 
that he keeps in his black
	 suit jacket pocket 
		a square jewel box
			with a puffy cotton bed
				where a little clay squirrel 
					lies all day, squirreled away	
						under a smooth-fitting cardboard lid;

3.

who kindly tend his wounds
like real estate
and excite him by dancing
our rumbas of desire

or carry his weight
on our billion shoulders
to the God Mountain, 
Burkhan Khaldun;

inconceivable

4.

that when concealing midnight falls
like the curtain when a play is done
and sound empties to silence like an  audience
and Genghis feels safely alone

he dips a  hand
	in his black suit 
		jacket pocket,
			takes out the box,
			 	lifts the smooth-fitting lid
					and brings his little squirrel
						between thumb and forefinger
							from its soft cotton bed,
					
and that for a minute or two or three
it kneels on his palm
--white bib chest, crescent 
afterthought tail, reaching forepaws,
amicable eyes--
he pets it with his thumb
and puts it back to bed
under the smooth-fitting lid.

Now everyone, everywhere, shhhhh.