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.