Not quite a hurricane
but a wind that still blows,
holding love aloft.
I prefer to be behind the scenes
like god,
observing the audience
through a ***** in the curtain.

I am prophecy self-fulfilled,
but I’ve been before mistaken.

Surprised to learn
that they embrace what they ****.

I created the tools.

I carved the stone and strung the bow.

I tracked the animal’s prints

across fresh snow.

I took careful aim,

steady, steady,

and then let go.

I brought you meat,

the liver & the heart,

and yet you

feast on

crumbs.

I become gluttonous
on solitude,

the way a person luxuriates
in furs and silk,

Italian leather,
diamond rings.

The finer things.

What can possibly be finer
than silence?

History forgets violence, cold-
blooded, the extinguishment,
and if not, the raw,
steadied torture.

This tenderness
rose from a river of blood.
Flowers in the garden,
wafting for no particular reason,
except a calling for bees.

Beauty I pick up on,
beauty like a sunset in the field,
blooming poppies,
just another revolution,
a day on Earth.

What are these bodies, these
limbs, giving up their sap
and heat? Who decides
who dies, who lives?

What is cut down is
cut down, and
bereft children
grow in their place.

No suits are filed
because the lines were blurred.
**** isn’t ****
when there isn’t a clear no.
**** isn’t ****
when you just lie there
and take it.

Night lowers its curtain of silence,
my only time to steal away, and
**** the flavour out of every
lovely rind.

It is its lime
bitterness,
mine to enjoy.
If only I could taste it.