They were like monsters
and with an axe to grind
their teeth to points.
To practical spires.
To kingdoms in their mouths.
Spires that jotted empires
on the horizon in their mouths.
Every blessed bite they took
left a holy impression.
the stone for building was immemorial
and new, once fresh-cut
cut with stone-cutting tools
that were made of cut-stone.
If your damn problems are so damn grand, then get a grander god
to eat them whole –
beef and bones and eyelashes and all.
It don’t even barely chew – just cocks it head back
and knocks it down.
Just plain shot to ribbons and rags,
Ma ’maw made good on those songs she used to sing
out back by fire light.
Before and during
the wringing of one fowl or another.
Same as with a gun,
whistlin’ in the stinking old dark.
Now you’re just talkin’ rot.
Now you’re just clownin’ around.
Now you’ve made little mince desserts by hand
in the loud dark
at the witching hour.
The Logical End
The one who lives within
what is made by their own hands
becomes accustomed to the overgrown
and to what lives within it.
Their eyes know the glass through which to see.
Their pink hands do know the blade.
May he eat those smaller things
that live within the small grass
by his blade,
and may his blade be an instrument of civility
lest the grass and its inhabitants
become big enough to need hands.
God help him if there is no sugar for taste.
Kay lives and works as a teacher in South Texas, probably watches too much TV, and can’t stop thinking about coyotes.
Header Image: Creative Commons, Public Domain, modified.
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