5 hours ago
Spring
Death is everywhere.
The running does no good.
A mother holds a baby to her breast,
in twenty years
he wraps his grown-up hands around her neck
and wrings it like a rag. He likes the way it feels
to feel the life exit her body, how she looks at him
with tenderness
that almost makes him stop.
Men exist to kill. We practice
every morning, kiss the only living thing we love
then put it in the ground. In Kansas,
there's a field of grain that stretches out so endlessly
you'd think the rain kept falling
even when the sun was out. Under every tree, a grave
no one will ever recognize
lifts up another daffodil
to have its head cut off.
Death is everywhere.
The running does no good.
A mother holds a baby to her breast,
in twenty years
he wraps his grown-up hands around her neck
and wrings it like a rag. He likes the way it feels
to feel the life exit her body, how she looks at him
with tenderness
that almost makes him stop.
Men exist to kill. We practice
every morning, kiss the only living thing we love
then put it in the ground. In Kansas,
there's a field of grain that stretches out so endlessly
you'd think the rain kept falling
even when the sun was out. Under every tree, a grave
no one will ever recognize
lifts up another daffodil
to have its head cut off.