untitled, 1917

they are eating each other.
mouths, so many of them,
bloodied, twisted, leaking
gross with grime
going at the flesh like hawks
hungry, angry hawks,
sniping away, limb my limb,
gritting at the bones
till they snap and grind,
hawks and their beaks,
full-toothed monsters,
our for blood.

they beat up a poor man
and shove him in the trunk.
they beat up an old man
and shove him in the trunk.
they kidnap a woman.
they kidnap a child.
they kidnap a dream.
and shove it in the trunk.

poetry is truth.
poetry is love.
poetry is art.
but is poetry really life?
is it truly an imitation of what is seen, and heard, and felt?
because can the break of their bones transcend the page?
can the plaster of the victim be wound around the blameless reader?
does the cut heal through words?
does a poet ever become the shaman?

rejoice.
you're not dead.
rejoice.
no wars are being fought as of now.
rejoice. rejoice.
school's out and you'll have a job.

but maybe im killed tomorrow.
maybe you come back to me wrapped in cloth.
maybe i cook for you again a bland dish of chicken and rice,
maybe they slit my throat.

there's no maybe in the "i love yous" we last exchanged;
but a what-if in "will you come back to me?"
you need not come back to me.
the world will tilt on its axis when you don't.
but i will cease to be.
there will be no open trunks to occupy.