Last Bubble Bursting Up
By David Soderberg 5/25/07
Poetry is the growling howling teeth
That drag me back to what I could have been--
Not the accidental meeting of possibilities.
It is the last child screaming naked
Against the radioactive holocaust
In a hellish haiku of my own devising:
The growling howling teeth rip
Beauty back to the lake shore
Of what could have been,
Of what Hitler could have been,
Of what I should have been
At dawn when the hawks
were already flying.
Poetry is the agony of the Now
Writhing within death or childbirth.
It howls at the sinking moon
of my own vast conscience.
I trot along the gravel shore attentive to
The Moonlight Sonata played so softly
Without lights at all to help my clawed
And stubby fingers grope for the
Before I can shoo myself off,
Poetry’s jaws snatch a fat fish
From wishboning nets that scintillate
Beneath the fishermen’s torches
Drawn up on this ancient pre-dawn shore—
Poetry is the last tiny bubble of significance
Bursting up above a Titanic grave
Years after the ice had melted
And we had all rowed away.