The man says I’m too savage.
Says we all need less blood in the mouth these days.

The man says, as much as was torn from you, that much you must reject.
I tell him he cannot know what the tearing is like and it continues.

I tell him how many of us are covered in fresh bite marks.
I tell him I can see him picking his teeth.

He says, you are right, that biting was bad, but do not bite back.
I say, you are right, the biting is bad, which cheek do you want to bite now?

He says, I think you do not understand what you invite with your biting.
I say, do you think I want to be eaten forever?

I ask him, do you think I want to eat you as you have eaten so many?
I tell him how sick we are with his love of our blood.

I tell him we do not want to get sick on his blood.
I tell him we are barely moving from lack of blood and muscle.

He says, but you cannot meet biting with biting and win.
I tell him, we don’t bite to win but to stop your biting.

He says, don’t bite me, for I am afraid of your hunger.
I tell him we can talk when he stops chewing.

I tell him we can all see he’s been chewing this whole time.
I tell him enough, stop talking to me with your mouth so full and red.

He cannot spit out my flesh and blood to answer.
I think he is less afraid of choking than he is of being bitten.

I do love apples:

how they bite back,
how they resist. Their
snap and thick punch.
How all that fight 
illuminates their sweetness.

Sometimes I eat 
two apples, one right
after the other. I eat my fill
and feel ready, taking on
apple-warrior-soul
as armor. 

Oh, come on, you say,
all this silly talk of apples
when there’s a war on —
talk to me of bullets or
barricades or dark swords.
Talk to me of fire and 
surging masses 
pressing forward toward 
victory.

I say that I know that some prefer
red meat before their battles.
Some tear into flesh
and sneer at those
who cannot or will not. 

I have neither fear of meat
nor any distaste for it — but

call me what you want:
just give me an apple
with which to face 
any given Goliath
and I’m ready — even if
when my time comes
all I can do is slip it
into my sling and take aim,
I will do that
with a singing, snapping
red tang to my attack,

and after, whether or not
I survive, there will be
peace in my apple-full belly

as I hope there will be peace
in yours 
regardless of what sustains you
through battle.

Five in a room in a snowstorm,
talking of the cold. Talking
of the way home, how bad
the road will be,
how warm it is in here. 

It is warm in here,
isn’t it?  Almost as if there’s no
storm spitting intermittently,
glassing the pavements, 
crusting the cars they’ll need
soon enough.  

The woods that surround
this sanctuary grow more and more
ominous. Some would say not ominous,
but peaceful.  It depends
on where you’re standing —
out in the cold among the trees,
or in a room in a warm building.
Under the trees, peace;
in the room, anxiety. 

Five in a room in a storm
with the woods all around
and danger waiting on the road
all of them will soon be traveling.

Outside, some are traveling already.
Some have been traveling a long time;
their whole lives, in fact.
What is it they see
when they pass the room
and catch a glimpse of
the five inside? Nothing,
really.  They might notice
a light and some privilege

but they know better
than to take their eyes
off the road
in weather like this.