One Poem by Dennis DuBois

Written in response to this month’s Special Challenge.

Forensic Conjectures

How could the topic of their focus have brought on
                  the very thing under discussion?
If one overly focuses on death, a specific type, will your
                  thoughts conjure it to manifest?
This questions renders the answers to be
                  unknowable, taboo,
                                    punishable if pursued.
We pushed forward, reassembled the parts
                  in reverse, placed the skulls
according to the manner in which they were found,
                  recreating a vibrant scene.
With lowered lights, we huddled together,
                  eyes darting with great intensity.
We sensed it all; the buildup of silence,
                  the flutter of leaves,
                                    the creaking of the old house--
All precursors of pathology, suggestive of
                  many hell-bound pathways.

This much we know: He set the black feather marker
                  upon the diagram of
                                    the cycle of decay.
He read to her from the ancient book of skulls.
                  She listened with great interest.
As he recited, she threw her hand up in awe,
                  slapping her cheek, as if to
                                    chastise herself for ignorance,
                  for not having known this before,
Yes, yes, she whispered, of course, it is just so,
                  as it should be, as it has
                                    always been.

Seconds later, the crinkle of something burning,
                  the dwindle of their undoing, reminiscent
of the browning and smushing of a dying rose.
                  His all-knowing look, now more mysterious,
                                    all his orifices empty of origin.
His uttered words echo in an empty bowl.
                  His snicker perverted. And her face,
her mouth wide open—is she enduring
                  unbearable pain or throwing her head back
                                    in uproarious laughter.
                  We don’t really know.



Dennis DuBois has been darkening pages, scribbling, jotting down, and then editing poems since he was a wee child. Poetry has been a friend, a guide, and someone to talk to when nobody else was around. His fingers may have stiffened over his guitar strings, but they hold a writing instrument just fine.

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