Three Poems
The God of Lesser Evils
is running for President of the United States
because The God of Lesser Evils
lacks imagination.
He is, of course, running unopposed.
They’re still holding a televised debate though,
hosted at Crypto.com Arena in LA.
During the Q&A section a reporter asks where
The God of Greater Evils is. Immediately, security slips
a black bag over her head and drags her from the premises.
The God of Lesser Evils then pulls
a 9mm from his waistband and fires
randomly into the audience.
This awakens a religious and erotic fervor in the crowd,
who launch into a ferocious orgy while The God of Lesser Evils
stands on stage with his hand over his heart, reciting the Star Spangled Banner.
As you watch this scene unfold, on your
52 inch plasma screen, you try to summon horror
or disgust, but all you feel is empty.
Like if you could reach your fingers underneath your rib cage
you could touch the gashes left in the bone by the carving knives
the doctors used to hollow you out at birth.
You’re so empty, you don’t even know how
to miss what is gone. But you can’t shake the feeling
that what is gone somehow misses you.
There’s Nothing Inside Me
that I put there.
You might call me a vessel,
but that implies purpose.
I’m more of a styrofoam
cup floating in the ocean
filling with salty water
it was never meant to taste
and slowly decaying into
microscopic pieces that will end up
in my stomach.
I’m always returning
to the ouroboros.
The irony is not lost on me.
God filled me with organs
and man fills those organs
with disposability.
I ask God to what end?
and God appears to me in a dream
as everyone I’ve ever grieved.
All of them formed together in one
horrific mass, they speak simultaneously
from their many mouths in a language
my organs understand.
I do not tremble before this
monstrous God because
I am dreaming and in dreams
I only fear the mundane.
When I wake up
I am hungry for a taste
I’ve never tasted.
The irony is not lost on me.
Etymology
After Threa Almontaser
The Poet asks me
What is the holiest
thing you’ve ever seen?
and I think of my best friend
sitting on our kitchen counter
telling me this place we
are in now, must be hell.
I think of our friend asking
what direction they should
orient a tattoo of a dead bird
they found. I tell them I like
the artistry and drama of the
side profile. Like the bird
threw their little head back
as they drew their final breath.
I wanted to stop writing
about dead birds but poetry
recognizes itself. Recognizes
what is holy. The word
from which holy is derived
means literally set apart.
Which begs the question,
from what?
∩
Delilah McCrea is a trans, anarchist poet living in Dearborn Michigan. She loves the NBA and knows the lyrics to every Saintseneca song. Her debut poetry collection, The Book of Flowers, is forthcoming in December 2024 from Pumpernickel House Publishing. More of her work can be found on her website.