why are boxes made for wild things? me being box-sized is no justification for putting me in one. i change my shape but the scriveners they are fleet-fingered and they are everywhere, they are in the parks, with strollers, dogs, a newspaper, an electrolyte drink and a nod, ready with their corrugated, laminated, or plain sheets of understanding where people belong ready to take my measurements and profile photo to gloss over my glory and wonder and mystery and lineage and heritage with whatever designs help them tame their fears of remembering their own wildness what's left behind when I peel away this freshly pressed name tag from its backing is the truth that i have no title, i am stripped of the beauty of being unnamed and can no longer cast furtive glances from behind papyrus stalks at the water's edge as when i first beheld you i dodged and ducked the sparring jabs of placing you in a box of my own defensive making and danced out of what i thought i should wear for the
Those finger traps made of foxgloves royal purple teasing touches you held time captive in your hands I felt it molasses slow my heart stop start st-stuttered at the beauty of your halo numinous luminous ... I can't recall what was real now those hazy days have ended how much of you was just the poison lazing in my bloodstream I don't know how much is due to my terminal condition Mistrust it blooms in shadow and in sun it knows no difference Was this your parting gift? ----------------------------------------
The old man at the top of the hill
poisoned my dog when I was a child;
I was warned not to make accusation.
As I grew, his face gnarled;
I watched him take on the look of cancer.
It taught me early to leave revenge be:
evil, like an unloved home, meets its end
when left to fall in on itself.