You know the story: a child pulls
off the legs of a spider or some
other insect, one by one, then
commands it to walk. In the end,
he concludes that without the means
to walk, one becomes deaf. Trail
of unmoving bodies on the windowsill:
after which the child loses interest
or moves on to a new experiment
involving wings and melted tallow.
I am not trying to say we are incapable
of violence. I am not trying to say
we haven't had dreams in which
our arms windmill until they find
a physical target, until the last
husk is surrendered as tax. Friends ask
how can you be so serene, listening
as an animal is slaughtered in the pit;
watching as blood pours from the slit
throat, as the knife scores the belly
until the creamy white lining yields
to inspection. Someone plunges
an arm into the cavity to bring
paired astrolabes to light: branched
lungs, streaked kidneys. These
can be hung in the trees, like
dark beads of a chandelier.