
'Body Count' & 'What Do You See In This Picture?': Two Poems by Dave O'Leary

BODY COUNT
There
was a time
I could not
safely go home because
there
was a murderous rage
there,
contained there,
brought out
there,
and somebody would have died
there
had I dared
to open that door one
more time.
And in fact two people
did die
there after
missing
the lives
they thought they were aiming for.

WHAT DO YOU SEE IN THIS PICTURE?
Only a block or two from home
there were two
shapes in the road
and he recognised instantly
what was happening,
a Rorschach test, two deer
it seemed out for a stroll
in the glare of a street
lamp. What else would it be
at this hour?
But which hour
was it?
Was it
tomorrow yet?
Maybe he would stop
ahead to ask,
but as he approached,
the shapes, the deer,
the things,
they lurched
and zigzagged
perhaps seeking the haven
of the trees, the bush,
the shrubbery
of the neighbourhood.
But his car
zigzagged too
like there were mechanical levers
connecting them all and making
the two things,
the three things,
all things,
physically
intertwined, the car and the deer,
the shapes, whatever
they might be, so that
zigs created opposing
zags and then a sound, a bang, a crash,
maybe even an explosion
and another test
of what was
and he said the word, “Rorschach.”
He liked that,
a measure of seeing things,
of determining
the shapes of things,
and this new test, the second
of the evening, or the morning
depending on the time,
was an expanding pool
of sorts that was oddly
crimson in the glow
of the fallen street lamp,
and he knew well
what it was.
A wasted evening,
tomorrow’s hangover
would be brutal,
one that might kill him.
The shapes approached
no longer
deer. They were raccoons now,
other things,
and they lingered over him
no longer
zigging or zagging
but staring
at things,
this thing,
the shape of him.
One of them was wearing
a watch but did not
offer the time.
He. She. It asked instead,
“Are you okay?”
but before he could answer
they’d changed again
into other
things,
wolves now,
a pack of two,
and one
pawed at his shoulder
once, twice,
the other sniffed
audibly and it lingered
with reverb like a tiny bit
of thunder
and he knew
then, finally,
that the hangover
was not
the thing
that would kill him.
Dave O'Leary is a writer and musician in Seattle. He's published two novels and has been featured in the Daily Drunk, Sledgehammer Lit, and Reflex Fiction. His new collection of poetry and prose—I Hear Your Music Playing Night and Day—was published in May 2021 by Cajun Mutt Press.
Twitter: @dolearyauthor
Instagram: @d_o_leary
Website: daveoleary.net