Dramatic Irony
It’s an unfair criticism,
but in the wild, a herd
of impala will cross the river
either too stupidly
or too cooperatively,
as if a slight hesitation
at the water’s edge
were adequate to detect
the leathery beasts awaiting
a meal. At home, the scene
unfolds on the TV & we delude
ourselves with the musical
accompaniment. The muddy depths,
a shield for the eyes.
Imagination is cruel, too,
which is to say I know
what it means to be dragged
under by workplace politics
or a shitty boyfriend. By men
who hogtie their children
in the cellar. What becomes of us
when we can’t recognize
the metaphor? Estranged relatives
will assemble in a field
of gladiolas around a human-
sized box for no reason
other than tradition.
They’ll fumble their words,
even though knowing
those words is what makes them
human. It’s morally wrong
to dog-ear the pages
of a borrowed book, harps
a friend. Even worse, to feed
the stray cat combing
the dumpster because her hunger
is what keeps her alive.
We think the right decision
will gain us power
or entry, but due diligence
pinpoints only the crocodile
in our lives, not the TV
viewers. The phone charging
by the bedside suggests
I’m a domesticated
animal, yet somewhere
a middle-aged man is laughing
in his pajamas on the couch
& sucking on maraschino
cherries, while I type
the right words
into my Notes App & pretend
I’m not broke or broken-
hearted. In times like these,
choose wisely. In times
like these, it’s me
crossing the river. It’s me
not knowing I’m dead.
