Just Another Dangerous Rhetorical Device by Alan Catlin

“and the aircraft overhead are not at war”

“The body alive to its impulses, trying to crush it….”
Anne Shaw

It was always night in
the formal garden of their love.
Who knew where the bodies were
buried they feared might return?
Or who the case workers were,
their outstretched hands extended,
offering solace, the most basic sort
of help to them, when they felt almost
totally deranged just being here,
in this world, this prearranged place,
so out of sorts they felt hypnotized,
half-awake at best, as if in some infra-
red photographed dream, so luminous
their inner eyes hurt just to think of
where they were, where they had been
and where they were going next.
Nothing could be salvaged except
the ruined negatives of their lives,
so enlarged now they resembled
grotesque parodies of people.
Looked like that moment just after
an atomic bomb had been dropped,
when everything was so sharp and
so clear before the tsunami wind hit….
neither one of them quite having
the energy to break away from this place,
each other, anything at all.  The closer
they became, the more she felt that
sharing space with him was like being
on a flat bed train car going nowhere
too fast with nothing to hold onto.

acatlin multi

Alan Catlin is a widely published poet in the US of A and elsewhere. His most recent book is “Books of the Dead: a memoir with poetry” about the deaths of his parents. He is a retired professional barman and the editor of the online poetry zine misfitmagazine.net.


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