Philip Dacey
is the author of ten books; the latest is a collection of sonnets, Vertebrae Rosaries (Red Dragonfly Press, 2009).
The winner of three Pushcart Prizes, two NEA grants, and a Fulbright to Yugoslavia, he has written collections of poems about Gerard Manley Hopkins, Thomas Eakins, and New York City. A decades-long resident of Minnesota, he now lives on Manhattan’s Upper West Side.
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Praying Mantises, 1965
I’d be reading, late at night—
the peace of the Nigerian bush
a dark surround,
my kerosene lamp
the center of the world—
when suddenly through the open window
they’d come whirring, hot for light,
and find me in the way.
Their impact and tangled thrashing in my hair
shocked me into my own thrashing:
I clawed them free and threw them to the floor,
where my shoe was executioner.
Not even their large eyes could stop me.
Then ants came up through cracks in the floor
to dismantle the mantises
and drag their parts back down into the dark
so that shortly after their deaths
the crime scene was as clean
as my conscience.
Now, decades later, the dead insects return.
They sit at the foot of the bed
or on the arm of a chair.
Though small, the delicate green creatures
cast a great shadow,
which includes me.
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