Andrew Hudgins
July 2004

Behemoth and Leviathan


"Can you draw out Leviathan
with a fishhook?" Yahweh sneers.
We have drawn out Leviathan.
At first with terror, then cheers,

and then the grunted curse of work.
We’ve hunted him to nothing.
We drawn him with a fishhook, Lord,
and then we’ve stilled his thrashing.

We’ve locked Behemoth in a pen
for children—and his horn
we’ve ground for an aphrodisiac.
We’ve plucked it like a thorn.

Earth-shakers wallow in zoo mud
and every morning amble
to their steel troughs and wait for food,
hungry but hugely gentle,

and the great ship-destroyer sits,
a jar of yellow oil
in a bright museum in Salem, where
I saw myself recoil,

and gag at ancient rancid fat.
We’ve drawn his mighty tooth
and etched it with the memories
of his efficient death.

Deep is shallow, distant close,
the predator defended,
the fierce incomprehensible
now fiercely comprehended.

But in their looming disappearance
they’re what they’ve always been:
Behemoth and Leviathan,
and chaos at the margin.

From Ecstatic in the Poison, The Overlook Press/Sewanee Writers’ Series, 2003.