My Voice

I was born with it
so it’s not entirely my fault
that it has always attracted certain prey
with its deep, salty tang.

It will wait for hours
to shoot something, then
field dress it
in nothing flat
and eat the still-beating

While it works
it is always silent, but
soon enough,
it returns to its regular burbling,
soon to include
the most recent death
in its ongoing narrative.

What a brave hunter, its undertones
seem to say.  It crows,
I am unafraid
of blood.

I don’t know what to do
about its craving
and the apparent ease with which
it is satisfied.  I just where it goes,
following trails to hunting grounds
that look different at first
but end up being pretty much the same.

Its tales of the gun
are admittedly compelling.
Whatever it fells, it seems, it owns.
Thus I am endlessly fed on raw meat
and sawed bones.

Thus I seem
to savor what it feeds me,
though there are moments like this
where I long for it
to become vegan and tire
of killing.

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About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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