The Burning
Turtles
Were not designed to be lifeboats
Bats not strung to their stalactites like balloons,
floating out caves to become kites wrapped around our fingers
like a falconer of the Caymans
The locomotion of hermit crabs
Not inspiration for us to build
Houses upon houses upon houses-
Where we all sit inside stuck
just waiting to find a new shell to crawl in
for the tide to pull us to shore
If I were to wash up on a empty island
with only the insects buzzing in my ear
I would bring with me a crown
Step up to a throne of reeds and palm fronds
For even the canopies need order
The jungle needing subjugation
The tide, washing up a torn, red flag
Gifted
With my salvation.
The teeth of Tigers
Collected for my diadems
No rebellion in this lawless realm because
They don't feel anything
The bible said all these creatures
Go to neither heaven
Nor hell
And the dinosaurs that once feasted on my palm frond
Throne
Never existed.
I am man.
The only things in the back of my shrinking brain
That I overlooked
Was the birds
Toucans
Parakeets
They whisper in the apex like white noise
And they remind me of home
Those voices unheard.
The Smiths, The Jones, The Williams.
Little ones like ladybugs on a ceiling-
I wonder what they would think
Of the future
If they saw me burn this island
down.
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