(1962)
Of course the landscape follows you,
the road is the bank of a river,
the one you skidded towards.
The dead know better, the world’s
a strange outdoor ballroom, a gap.
It can be filled with shadows, or
it can empty out, a cracked water
fountain, a dress that doesn’t fit.
Remember, silence is not acoustic.
The dead know a shell game when
they see one. Take their word for it:
time silts your body, you cough up
muck, your skirt caked in dredge,
shredding on the edge of a lake
that should be a desert. Sure, go
shop in fabricated surroundings
you pretend are there, find dread comes
in two sizes, large, and extra-nameless.
It’s the pantomime of having a soul. Every
movie director is a psychiatrist of light,
a dead man clinging to your window,
whispering “action.” But who are they,
asking you to dance with the saprophytes,
and then dance with the heterotrophs?
The dead’s formalwear, nothing’s creepier
than Time, the thrills of a Mardi Gras
gone very cold, a prom where you swoon
in the arms of Mr. Merry-Go-Round.
Come up out of the bathtub in your
pancake makeup. Americans never leave
their cars: It’s what carnival means:
last chance to be meat: your Lent is coming,
your Spring, you are alive, but have been—
the whole time—unquestionably dead.
-
The Delaware Poetry Review, or DePoetry.com, is an online compilation of amazing, contemporary poetry gathered by a group of erudite editors based in the Mid-Atlantic Region. This notable compilation of poetry has been available since 2007, publishing new editions about once a year.
Each edition features a variety of poets chosen by the editors. This blog features our published poets.
More new works from the Mid-Atlantic Region are available at DePoetry.com. For feedback, contact depoet@capegazette.com or go to facebook.com/delawarepoetryreview.
