Two Wings and a Tail
Give me an hour in discourse with a thing with a tail,
and I'll haul back something new.
Let it be long in the tooth and black in the eye.
Let it be gracious and give me the time,
although it sees plainly that I have no tail.
And let him have wings of some sort.
I'll watch his flight and feel pangs of what I'll never do.
I'm god-like, some say, with these omnivorous mandibles
and heavy brains
and two thumbs that oppose.
Who am I kidding?
The thing who is long in the tooth and black in the eye, winged!
Let him wear a rogue sort of skin - green or spines or slick or thick fur.
With that eye, it knows the lay of the land at a glimpse.
It carries a sense of the primordial, the apocalyptic.
It carries poison.
This place, I'm figuring out, every minute, each day.
But the thing - it knew from the cradle - not just how to kill,
but to do it without causing pain.
If there's a god (please let there be a god) -
then I'm quite sure it harbors two wings and a tail.