If forgiveness were the one thing standing between
my spear and my supper, I might perhaps
one day regret being unable
to endure hunger.
I do not hunt to kill—and yet, here I live
and eat. My conscious, as always, is quiet
as this mausoleum. I sleep like the dead.
I return home from every war
with my shield instead of on it. I am disinclined
to sacrifice where I might instead conquer.
The horse I ride in on is black as pitch.
I try my hands at benevolence again
and again, pruned and blistered
as they are.
My lover is no Diego Rivera. My hair has grown
long enough to cover my breasts, though
I don’t. His deciduous heart
blankets the earth in a predictable
yet honest fashion. I teach him pointedly
about conifers, yet assure him that I
(usually) do not mind
the raking.
My books reveal naught about love’s
half-life, but I suppose as long
as I can chloroform myself with
his t-shirts, he gets to choose between
an entry wound and a mouth to feed.
I myself remain unaffected by the change
of seasons, so his mutinies intrigue me.
I observe. I fashion jewelry out of sun-bleached
bones. I eat whatever berries I come across,
tempting fate and her sisters. I steal
and burn priceless paintings.
I lick my fingers
clean.
- Cierra Lowe-Price, 2023