[Photo by Rythik, on Unsplash.]
could it be I’m just tired
of lingering impotent in the shadows
that your lumber mills and coal-snarling houses
printed on the ground?
could it be I’m just tired
of sniffing in circles, tongue hanging,
tearing into the scraps you leave behind in a way
that barely fills
my stomach up?
I don’t remember how long it’s been
since the lean curves of my gut
started eating into themselves for hunger.
could it be I’m just tired
of letting you in and out of my home,
watching as you scrape cruel childish letters
to bruise and scar trees’ flesh?
could it be I’m just tired
of lingering on the sword-edge of non-existence,
letting you pretend that nothing
is here to see your disrespect?
it could be that if you’re
careful, tread swift and light, and leave only
scent behind for me, you might still
walk home again.
it could be that if you’re
heedless, tossing selfish trash from your hands
and your mouth as you walk through
land that doesn’t
belong to you,
I’ll track you. I’ll find you, smell you
out by your greedy ignorance, and then
I’ll give you
the world’s vengeance
and my hunger. you see, it could be
that I’m tired, but not so tired I’ve forgotten
what you should have remembered.