We came together
on a Wednesday night
to beat the ape
to death.

It was a warm night.
There were ribbons in the trees
and a firepit, wine and song,
and baseball bats.

The ape was strangely calm.
One by one she looked into our circled faces.
We do this out of compassion,
she is doomed already, the preacher intoned

as we raised the bats high.  None of us
wanted to strike the first blow.  Urged on
by our love, we swung all at once, she fell,
and then we finished the job.

Our arms were swinging, we crooked and twisted
away from each other to avoid being hit.
We threw the body on the fire and the fur
singed and ripped in out nostrils.

This was an ape, after all.  This is how
we started on the path.  From this
came the human, and from this came the war.
In killing our source, perhaps we could kill

the impulse to kill?  It was worth a try,
we had said before we began — and now,
spattered and at peace, we sat and looked into
the bones in the flames, hoping against hope

that this burning might be the future at last.

NOTE:  It’s been pointed out how much like a Russell Edson poem (“Killing The Ape”) this is…totally unconscious, I swear.  I’m a big Edson fan, and how I blanked on that particular poem, I have no idea.  I’ll leave it up, but definitely want to acknowledge the debt.