Donatello’s
Goliath

He’s only playing possum. You can tell ― even decapitated, he’s not dead. There’s power in that giant, shaggy head like a Saint Bernard’s, power in the swell of unseen muscles, power in deceit as he pretends to be the helpless one, a conquest in the war of love, undone, groveling like a slave at David’s feet. Power always claims that it has none.

Rose Kelleher

If you have any comments on this poem, Rose Kelleher would be pleased to hear from you.