We’ve taken your weapons for
our shinies. They are Art,
looking so good there on the wall.
Not because we needed them
but because you did.
With them, you took
the fleshgift and gave thanks,
clothed by them in the speed of the hare,
the strength of the herd, only culled
lightly by these sticks and blades,
or held them strangled in
sweatslick palms; a silver sickle's flash
in the night meadow of a hidden moon,
harvesting suede-skinned wives
with pomegranate eyes
half asleep and weeping
in the night.
Some flew, smokesung, charmed
with feathering colors, back to the thrower
magicking the empty pot,
or were sharpened, adorned, polished,
given names and a will to seek the outsider,
to meet him breast to breast
and drink his life.
But all that’s past and gone now.
Oh pretty yes, but laughable,
adorably primitive, that hand to hand concept
of some sort of personal responsibility.
No match at all for a pinch of black powder,
and the myriad vermicules of filth swarming
from our poisoned pockets.
They look perfect on the wall, don’t they?
They match the lampshades
and paint our power
soulless but infinite
over everything that matters.
Posted for One Shoot Sunday at the inimitable One Stop Poetry
Image: Photo by Lauren Randolph