Charade

I was thinking of the sad
scentlessness of film,
of how everyone in that scene
from Charade 
where they pass the orange
under their nuzzling chins –
is dead.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxNo wonder
the doctors keep ringing
us up as meat, covering us in the butcher
paper of gowns, when we keep
waking from the roulette dream
as a gnat prodded by the devil’s
tiniest pitchfork.

Who doesn’t
think deep down they’re the real
inflatable man, davening
and crumple-punching
the auto lot?

xxxxxxxBut sometimes having
a face and feet and bank account
and sorrow, feels like the way in
somewhere – like a hole you lower
your face into to have a partial
burial, or baptism in the gentle
amorality of earth.

 

 

 

Adam Scheffler grew up in California, received his MFA in poetry from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and his PhD in English from Harvard. His first book of poems – A Dog’s Life – was selected by Denise Duhamel as the winner of the Jacar Press Poetry Book Contest. His poems have appeared in The American Poetry Review, The Antioch Review, Rattle, North American Review, Verse Daily, and many other venues. He is currently a Preceptor in Harvard’s Expository Writing Program for which he teaches a course on Hell and the Underworld.

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