Poetry from J.D. DeHart

They say they are
quarreling, a quaint old
word, which surely must
be some kind of quilted,
ultra-polite argument,
old voices clashing lightly
like wooden swords
in a soft air, kindly slapping
at each other.
Quivering mass, no spine
or limbs or life, no rigidity,
a flaccid creature
No structure, just a fluid
personality, sanguine,
agreement and resignation,
spelling weakness and streaming
event to event with a shrug.
Prod, electric shock,
the odors of the lab
and scrubs
a salivating cavity,
churning lurching stomach
dissolving all triggers.
His weapon was the comfort
of a bed, a reclining
instrument of ending,
stretching or snipping
to make life fit the outline,
just like we jam our
thoughts into the heads
of others, just like we attack
with an ideology.

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