A tiny face of genius & tolerance
brands itself organic
abrupt vampire of himself, of health,
stoned circle of having risen—
Why the natural inclination to pet,
to be affection with a soul made of bone
on haunches among honeysuckle
and little else to dine upon?
I wasn't able to claim the backs
of my legs, and for that crime, was martyred
for modern day races.
From these trials, I learned to be true
to truths that hugged and lost and slew.
Not what makes my liver stand on end
but how to shake fists against the failings
of insects, of lambs, of castles and the fruits
of shadows that walk with us behind our backs,
swampy corners of decay united.
From old Jewish towns we embrace
the plotted demise and welcome a ghost
in born-again tatters, being all that we know
and the only face that matters. Except
a child from the lawn who watches, in stone.
We become as ripe as an earth's waiting meat,
better for sculpting to crumble
a rib-eyed dust spelling death out,
names that soften at moon, broken to rise again.
Amy King holding Wolfgang and Ana Božičević holding Walt Whitman