Doré’s Engravings
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The leaves are dry and yellow, edged with brown, in the Forest of the Suicides. One soul has got a knothole-navel, and his neck grows down, a tuberous root, into the hard unholy ground: Mr. Potato Head, my brother says. Following his lead, I laugh with him, pretending to be brave or pitiless, uncertain which is which. (In Hell, the difference doesn’t matter much.) Harpies—with claws, human heads, crows’ wings and women’s breasts—alight on limbs to eat the leaves of trees that moan aloud and bleed; feet protrude from smoking wells, intestines dangle from a stomach wound, lopped limbs fester perpetually for finite sins; while bathed in love-light, angels tra-la-la and beam as sinners scream. Then, at the end, the wingèd creatures swarm in corkscrew form, spiraling up to God. But Tommy says they’re swirling down the toilet; and, being ten, he makes a farting noise, and says amen. by Rose Poto |