Work of the Week

 

                                                         

The British Detective
                       
            He follows a winding road
                        through windswept seaside hills.
                        to a neglected cottage by moonlight,
                                    where a suspect has spent years
                        nursing obsessions in sepia clippings.
                                    Here the plot, like the darkness, thickens.
 
                        We are scared for our own reasons,
                                    looking to the detective chief inspector
                        for resolution in traces of blood
                                    shed for our amusement.
                        Anglophilia is a dangerous disease, Mate,
                                    for a non-Anglo like yourself,
 
                        or at least it was before the detective
                                    arrived to torture his insular soul
                        like a stooge bound and gagged
                                    for having witnessed the many ways
                        man hands on misery to man.
                                    He never boasts of imminent collapse.
 
                        The victim took a cleaver blow
                                    and was found naked and blue
                        in a stream hard by his studio
                                    filled with unfinished landscapes
                        he was painting to escape the pain
                                    he had or hadn’t inflicted.
 
                        The victim knew the killer, the copper
                                    knows, because the victim always
                        knows the killer or should have known.
                                    Both spouses grieve for the waste
                        seated on the coroner’s throne
                                    until the detective is satisfied.
 
                        The detective unearths the truth
                                    and carries its thousand-pound corpse
                        around on her back, decaying
                                    so slowly that she will retire
                        with its DNA all over her,
                                    hoping never to infect, never to allow
 
                        her grandchildren knowledge of the universal
                                    suffering, no matter how charming
                        the accent or picturesque the moor
                                    rolling to a cliff from which she can gaze
                        into the mist, imagine everyone intact
                                    or, swallowing the secret, make the leap.  

About George

About George

 

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George Guida is the author of eight books, the latest of which will appear in 2020: a fifth collection of poems, Zen of Pop (Long Sky Media) and the revised edition of his second collection New York and Other Lovers (Encircle Publications). Pugilistic (WordTech Editions), his third collection of poems; The Sleeping Gulf (Bordighera Press), his fourth collection of poems; and Spectacles of Themselves: Essays in Italian American Literature and Popular Culture (Bordighera Press), his second collection of critical essays–were published in 2015 . His poetry, fiction and essays appear in numerous journals and anthologies. He teaches writing and literature at New York City College of Technology, and serves as Senior Advisory Editor to 2 Bridges Review.