New poems by JD DeHart

 

I, Leviathan

 

Of course, I am here

have been here all along

nestled next to the floor

Below me, the blind fish

swim in empty circles

Above me, the tender forms

of humanoids splash

they are pretending to rule

Around me, the old castles

are now covered with algae

ancient spears wither away.

 

 

 

Play Pretties

 

She does not know the meaning

of the dolls, and still has questions

about life – where do the babies

come from, after all?

Her inner child still longs for a red

rain slicker, but the box is empty

when she tries to open it – why is

it always empty?

With contempt, she takes hope

tries to stitch it to hope, to make

a pretty picture, but the seams just

seem to refuse intersection.

The truth is, she would suck on ether

for the people she loves, kicking down

doors and throwing herself into danger.

 

 

 

Stitching

 

What has happened to your arm, the psychologist

begins, but the patient protests: It is not my arm,

for it will not follow my commands, and as Jesus

Himself said, if you love me, follow my commands.

So you mean to say, the good doctor inquires, that it

has been stitched on to you, as if by force?

I’d like a Tom Collins, the patient declares, and another

round of golf, now pretending to be at a club, avoiding,

always avoiding the questions that would lead

to the truth of the fall, the injury to the cranium

the ugly reality of the wound and convalescence.

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