A Fiction

This entry is part 4 of 14 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Summer 2014

The Doctor insists
there is no longer
any promised land—

insists it is a myth,
inflated fable chased
across the dust

of centuries
by the dispossessed,
who have forgotten

where they’re from
and what they’re doing
here. And whose fault

is that? asks
the automaton with
the marble eye,

and the soldiers for hire
dropped into the deserts
of middle earth,

and the maids whose hands
have become detachable
at the wrists—

interchangeable as all
the other trafficked
body parts that move

the indifferent machine
farther and farther
from any living source.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

Series Navigation← Cogito, ergo[poem removed by author] →

2 Comments


  1. I really liked your poem. The maids’ and soldiers’ stanzas were so affecting. I also liked the end.I’m wondering a little about the Doctor in the beginning, why he is there? It stopped me–not in a bad way.

    Thanks!!!!!!!

    Reply

  2. That’s easy– we were watching the season premiere of Doctor Who and his character said just that sort of line. Which I took and wrote a different sort of poem with but that I think still echos the sense of some post- post- post-industrial/postmodern reality.

    Reply

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