Poetry by Eric Dillalogue
There’s a dampness, it seems, when soft things melt
Like waxy combs or butter in the pan
Or this flesh, gone putrid in the steely sun,
Hung like a wet rag on a rotten branch,
Pinned by darts, laced up in bindings;
The soft man-stuff goes softer,
Is weak and goes weaker,
Is foul and fouls the mossy banks below.
Who would scoop me back up, gather the liquid leavings,
Finger for dregs at the bottom of this barrel
And mash them in molds made in shapes like
Courage or perseverance?
Mash and make a man again, mash and make a life,
And, when formed, bake me in the noon sun,
Where the scratch of insects’ legs and the
Thrash of animals’ claws might place there,
Somehow, small-like, a patient soul.
Eric Dillalogue is an aspiring writer in New York. His work has previously appeared in Otoliths.
Arcturus 