R. H. W. DILLARD  |  From What Is Owed the Dead

Light

Illuminated, “un semplice lume,” you, Dante, once lost,
Off “la diritta via,” then found, now needed, millennium
Of continuing inferno, torture, lies, lies, oh lies, “malvagio
Traditor,” traitors, mass graves, traitors, traitors, bloated
Rivers, language emptied of all meaning, rank deception,
Heated sour air, bombs bursting bursting bursting,
Betrayers chewed in each, “ogni bocca,” hellish mouth,
But, dead, still get around, H., baked organs bottled,
Juggled in Kremlin, “one-ball business,” M., bald head
Pounded like punching bag, strung up, dug up, boxed,
Bent double, planted again, again, S., too, laid stiffly out,
Then, Moscow night, hurried out of sight, not out of mind,
“Una selva oscura” indeed, and every day keeps coming
Down, there, here, pot-belly Führer, porcine Duce, weird
Sisters at their brewing, need you now, maestro, now,
Reshape penumbra, now, into lasting shape of light.  

   From What Is Owed the Dead, Contents
   Contributor’s notes

return to top