Quills
Living with her
was like living with roaches,
flimsy, easy to kill but never
really dead, always stutter running
always more hidden than shown
always a scuttling when the switch flipped,
impossible to hold accountable.
In a hard country, the dog chased
the porcupine
catching a hundred razor
barbed quills in his face every time.
Every time, they'd cut and pull them while he cried,
saying, he's learned now,
he won't do it again.
Before the blood was dulled dry, he'd be up
hunting, disfigured nose twitching, bantam
brain eclipsed, swollen with the useless rage
of the violated; just so, the child came back at her
teeth bared, howling outside the den, nose down
for the yelling, the curse, the barbs in its
face, a hundred times.
In the rank stillness Mama Roach
drops her eggcase on the drainboard
casual as shedding a dirty thong.
Mating. Eating. Her own survival
absorbs her, and there will be more
eggs, many more. It's nothing
personal.
~August 2012
Posted for
OpenLinkNight at
dVerse Poets Pub
I'll be hosting tonight at the pub, so come join us. Doors open at 3:00 PM EST and link-in is live through tomorrow midnight.
If you would like to hear the poem read by the author, click below:
Header photo: Porcupine quills, by lamiot
from Stekelvarken.JPG (Image:Stekelvarken.JPG) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons