Deborah Kreuze
Oh woe to the souls who can see underneath
to the sprees of debris that must be underneath.
Their towers of flowers of rational thought
are a rotting grotesque potpourri underneath.
The animal gnawing its leg off to beg off
a spring-trap is already free underneath.
The clamors of jackhammers, sirens, jet engines at
takeoff, are all do-re-mi underneath.
The octopus locked to us tight as we scream
in the night is a dry amputee underneath.
The stringy-haired life-impaired vegan’s a blood-slurping
m-e-a-t  p-i-g  underneath.
The ocean, its seesawing motion, its seaweed, are
p-l-a-s-t-i-c  underneath.
Be wary: the very idea of seeing
beneath is one big  l-i-e underneath.


DEBORAH KREUZE is a Pushcart-nominated poet, editor, and writer living in Boston.