The Beast UnderneathThroughout the span, there are occasions, when rare allowance grants us the capacity to become beasts, spare moments when the sound emerging from the throat is not your own, not yet organized into words. In these disordered realms civility falls away, the captain’s wheel, the driver’s seat, surrendered to the baby beast within. Together we conspire to spin out of control, years, layers, of training in free fall, collapsing like a planned demolition. When the constraints are fully lifted, the cell door left open- we begin to resemble most truly, the animal we are- just under.
The Common CraneIn a clump of flattened grass I came upon the desiccated carcass of a common crane, stripped of every dignity with no remembrance of flight, no recall of his passionate mating dance or the way he stood, statuesque in still waters. There he lay, black ants scurrying out of sunken eye holes. The final pose of the common crane, neck askance, long legs akimbo, hardened into sticks. Black dry skin still clings to sun bleached bone. Yellow beak, faded, fixed open, a few feathers in disarray. There, where the belly would be, lay odd-shaped plastic objects, the discarded parts of broken toys; multi-colored stars, blocks, triangles, gears of all sizes. As many as twenty indigestibles lay there, intact on the ground, untouched by the tragedy of the event. They remain as testament. I kneel to take a feather.
Dennis Dubois holds a Master’s Degree in social work, and has worked to help others for decades, while writing poems along the way. He has published poems in Bee Museum, Curved House, The Projectionist’s Playground, Runcible Spoon, Verse News, MessageinaBottle, and Nine Muses poetry. He is preparing a collection of poems and a first work of fiction. He is an American expatriate, living in Copenhagen.