In Hans Ostrom’s “Of One,” the number one becomes a character: dull, self-righteous, and faintly menacing. The speaker compares it to a long-winded preacher in August heat and a furious father hammering an anvil, so the mood is both stifling and aggressive. There is dry humor in the insults, but the images also feel oppressive. One is “priapic but sterile,” a single tree left after clear-cutting—isolated, proud, yet barren. By the end, one is drunk, snarling, demanding obedience while pretending that everyone agrees. The poem suggests that oneness can mean loneliness, rigidity, and force: the single arrow that killed the crow. It leaves a sour, claustrophobic feeling, as if unity has curdled into control.
Of One — Summary
It is the most boring number— a thin, sour preacher flagging in the second hour of an August sermon, an enraged father pounding on an anvil.
It is priapic but sterile, one tree remaining after clear-cut.
“One” wakes up drunk, snarls at the television. “One” demands compliance and calls it consensus. “One” complies. “One” is the arrow that killed the crow.