Two Poems by David Keplinger

The Immoral Jellyfish

A whorl of hair locked in the bristles of the hundred-year-old hairbrush: a
sculpture the brush is chiseling, in the shape of the dead woman’s ear

The cicada floating over salvia touches on the surfaces, sifting through its
files, everything in order, a competent desk clerk of the 19th century.

*

The prestige, that it happens, that death comes and swept away a
personality, made us talkative in the hospital waiting room, like children
during a field trip.

*

My shoeboxes were my first poems, houses for my disconnected objects.
Crickets chirped loudly in the forests of shirts and dress pants in the closet.

*

And in the winter the silverfish takes rule of my tub, circling. White sea. The
morning will be dark for five more hours. Much accrues as loneliness.
Pictographs of ice on glass. Bad plumbing of old regime.

*

The scary thing about losing everything, including consciousness, is that you
can really believe right to the end that you are the thing you are losing.

*

In his old secretary desk I find a camera with film inside, set to take the next
shot from his childhood, and a text on the immortal jellyfish, which ages
backwards to its birth, to be the youngest thing on earth, again and again.

*

The earth is my body, I am the tooth, eternity a doorknob, and time is the
string it’s looped to. My life, the instant it takes the door to slam shut.


Deduction

In order to deduct the costs of his office

he had to measure it well and he did,

starting with the window where the sun

shines through the winter trees, spoked

with branches. The sun was one centimeter

thereabouts, and the square of the window

it shined through, the size of a picture

frame. Under the window was a desk

which would have been about the shape

of a six-month old Polish elk, its head lowered

in the carpet’s scythed grass, but the desk

was red, a kind of unnatural cherry red,

so it would have to be called a large

stripped carcass on the tax form. A lamp,

the only artificial fluorescence in the room.

It had two small columns like the portico

of the Temple of Minerva. It was the size

of the end of a tiny harpoon. The chair

could not be mistaken for anything

but tombstone from the back. From the front

it was a child pushing two hands on the ground,

about to stand up for the first tie.

And he deducted himself, the size of

a man at the beginning of the end of

a story, the part where the thing inside him

is given shape in how he describes the sound

of a flute being played by a neighbor, the

cubit or so that held the breath, the fathoms

of the workings of that instrument.

Leave a Comment