Front Porch Review
A literary magazine for the young at heart and mind

If you drown a prisoner again and again
and again,
he will sing any song
you request. And after his screams
have hollowed out a cavern
in what used to be your soul,
he will go limp with shock and death
will follow.

This is not a theory,
like evolution, but a fact
that can be measured,
like how much accumulated grace
a single act of cruelty can displace.

Later, on your bed, it may help
to count the springs of the bunk overhead.
Recite each number
like a coded prayer.
Let your iron tears flow
freely down your iron face.

Then watch the square of sunlight
as it crawls across the floor,
and spills what's left of light and warmth
like water beneath the door.

By David Hart

David Hart was born and raised, more or less, in Galesburg, Illinois, a small town and birthplace of another poet, Carl Sandberg, who was heartily detested by those locals who knew him. The main diversions in Galesburg were dating, beer and golf. David didn't play golf, but he did manage to read a couple of books before he left for college. He majored in English at Northwestern with the hope of being a writer ─ fame, women, wine and long hair ─ but decided he could make a better living at something less reputable. He attended Harvard Law School, practiced in Chicago for about thirty years, retired early, lost his hair, and is dependent upon his wife for support in his dotage.