Animal
I’ve been made to lick my wounds. I can’t find what animal I am.
Am I an animal? See, where the thing differs is that
I have no hair on my head. No fur to caution against the cold wind.
Animals love their mothers—that is the same. I perch atop my bed
like a small bird. Or a bird of prey. I killed a mouse in my room
once. See, I do love death. I sing when the moon is full. There is a
lack of children as I gave them away. See, I have no feeling for
material things. I count the wolves, brethren. One. Two. A mole
hides and sometimes I do that too.
But look at the havoc god has placed in between my body and yours.
Isn’t it a blessing? Not to be hungry, venomous,
for something more? Ha! I don’t understand
that blessing. I want more. Ravenous, raven-like,
like a beast with an empty belly.
But that’s not nice.
See, writing a poem about being
an animal and being Black is hard.
The poem’s been written before
in blood.
źródło: Read A Little Poetry
10.09.2026