Cave Art
Our daughters,
left to their own devices,
will destroy the world around them.
We raised them to feed on the stories we tell,
and we starved them.
They slap the walls.
They shit where they eat.
Handprints pressed and smeared,
the hunt, the kill,
the animal in red.
Who knows where they find the paint?
We tell them their art is beautiful.
They ask us why.
They tell us they didn't do it.
Whatever the Opposite of Extinction Is
Like most men,
I pretend to know
what I am
talking about
when I mark my territory,
fire a shot through the stern,
declare war as a matter of diplomacy.
Like most men,
I confuse
occupation
with domestic agenda.
But when my wife puts her fork
on the table and asks me
what’s wrong
with my mouth,
I can barely swallow.
I know the intention of pitch,
the risk of inflection,
the point between
posture and pander,
but my mouth,
foul from roof to corner,
has been the staging point
for nearly every invasion.
It’s all the talk
of caves and castles,
the meat in my hand,
and battlefield commissions
that swell my tongue,
that leave me to insist
on talking in the first place.
And like most men,
I’ve been quick
to shoot the messenger.
Like most men,
I’ve evolved
just enough.
