Death of the Animists

Spit, spit, spit.
You mad group of prophets,
you leaders with sticks,
you came with your hungry mouths
hung open and groaning for
a solitary love, a Mono,
an El without end.

Mother's shadow is hung
where she stood;
strung low,
huddled between the flayed
hide of the goats.
Father is crisped,
the fire of your fury
has licked his fists clean.
They rattle, jars of bone.

The wind was kept out by the work
of their hands.
They prayed to the rocks,
to the whistle and scatter
of bark and of wind,
to the thrusting of springs.

You, bastard son. You did them in.

Spit, spit, spit.
You split the red sea but
bludgeoned the life out of it.

Marriage: One

I can walk, talk, eat cake,
balance our accounts,
sip tea you make for me
and laugh, laugh, laugh
all with a broken arm,
three fractured ribs
and gangrene in my fists.

Oh, I've seen you do the same.
I've heard your chest pain
down the line as you call
to say you'll be late.
I've heard your throat close
with cancer as you smile
through the buzz and snow.

You didn't snap my bones
and I haven't torn your muscles
with my teeth.
It was wasn't us, it wasn't them,
it wasn't anyone I can see
or you can see.
I'm sure of just one thing:

it happened before we were We.

Not that I should fix you, you think.

You could not be more right
and wrong.