dave harrity

Once I loved, but that was taken from me. Perverse
for consequence, I now prefer light complicated
by branches, the dark reliability of blackwood canopies.

Two soldiers followed me into the dell, lushed opportunity
& inebriate desire. I still am, in many ways, the low fruit
of occupation. They wrestled me down & bit me,

held a knife on the silk of my scrotum. I fancy the barbarism
of lust to all things gentle—it’s precise, without lyricism—requires
no sentiment. During the war, there was no tense

for the momentary, only before & after. Previously, longing
& scandal—barbed supervision. Later, bodies stricken by machinery.
I’ve learned hiding—too many considerations in daylight. I am one.


Dave Harrity’s writing has appeared in Verse Daily, Forklift, Ohio, Copper Nickel, Palimpsest, Memorious, The Los Angeles Review, Softblow and elsewhere. His most recent book is Our Father in the Year of the Wolf (Word Farm, 2016). He is a recipient of an Emerging Artist Award and an Al Smith Fellowship from the Kentucky Arts Council.