Poem by Norbert Hirschhorn

Bat As Metaphor

I thought I’d sealed the house –
doors, eaves, screens, casements – safe
finally, but now
the bat has entered anyhow,
somehow.
It squats on my bookshelf in
moveless flight, zombie-eyed,
icepick teeth, porcine snout. Ultrasonic
screaks pierce the air. I can’t
get it out.

Times ago, a bat plunged in,
ricocheting wall to wall until I
trapped it with a metal tennis racquet,
slamming it
again, again again again,
running to get gardeners’ gloves, gorge
rising in my throat, finally
throwing a towel over the twitching carcass, in

remembrance of a
love gone foul, because it was.

poem by Norbert Hirschorn.  Published online with permission of the author.

Comments

I'm thinking those two stanzas should be reversed. Rodin would smash a student's maquette, tell her to reassemble the work.

BAT AS METAPHOR

Times ago, a bat plunged in,
ricocheting wall to wall until I
trapped it with a metal tennis racquet,
slamming it
again, again again again,
running to get gardeners’ gloves, gorge
rising in my throat, finally
throwing a towel over the twitching carcass, in
remembrance of a love gone foul,
because it was.

I thought I’d sealed the house –
doors, eaves, screens, casements – safe
finally, but now
the bat has entered anyhow,
somehow.
It squats on my bookshelf in
moveless flight, zombie-eyed,
icepick teeth, porcine snout. Ultrasonic
screaks pierce the air. I can’t
get it out.

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