The Death of Heidegger

Don Hogle

It’s Day 46 of my quarantine at the Excelsior Hotel;
the place is as sordid as it was before the Requisition. 

I’ve been listening to Verdi’s Stiffelio with Carreras. 
They’ve promised me a CD of cantatas by Strozzi. 

The one TV channel I get in my room plays nothing 
but Soviet-era porn. Yesterday after dinner, I watched 

Twelve Nights in Sevastopol. Olga’s a dental hygienist 
at a notorious prison camp, and the fun begins when 

Dmitri arrives for a check-up. The Russians knew 
how to shoot a hot scene, but dental care in a gulag? 

There’s a suspicion my aorta may have dextroposed. 
How can there be uncertainty about a thing like that? 

Down in the lobby, we’re required to wear our foil suits. 
We can only breathe bleached air from the canisters 

we’re given each day. Something in the BreathBlend 
acts on the vocal cords like helium, so we all sound 

like pubescent mice. It knocks the Space-X boys down 
a notch, posing in their macho, wide-legged stances, 

telling their Earthist space jokes. One of them saw me 
reading Sartre the other day, and ever since, he’s tried 

to convince me that when Heidegger died in 1976 
at Freiburg im Breisgau, a ring surrounding the moon 

burst into flames––the guy claims there are photos––
causing cabbages in the markets to rot.

Don Hogle's poetry has appeared in Apalachee Review, Atlanta Review, Carolina Quarterly, Chautauqua, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and others. Awards include an Honorable Mention for the 2018 E. E. Cummings Prize from the New England Poetry Club. His first chapbook, "Madagascar," was published by Sevens Kitchens Press in the fall of 2020. He lives in Manhattan. Website: www.donhoglepoet.com