Dilemmas of the Angels: Fucking Morons

By David Romtvedt

Since he evicted Adam and Eve,
nobody’s much used the Garden.
There’s a padlock on the gate
and a NO TRESPASSING sign
in seven thousand languages.

In the cool of the evening,
she hikes up her skirt
and climbs the fence.

The perennial hedges have run wild
and the annual flowers have gone to hell.
Still, it’s beautiful—the butterscotch smell
of ponderosa pine next to the dry rattle
of palm fronds as if to say anything
is possible. It takes her breath away.

Somewhere in a distant room
a man sits in charge of nuclear bombs.
Somewhere else, a second man
in charge of a second set of bombs.

Seeing them in their chairs,
she can’t breathe. Finally, choking,
she gasps out, “Fucking morons”
then bends and throws up.

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Categories: Issue 4, Poetry | Leave a comment

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