Listening to the warbling, late at night, I’m thinking
There’s a history to the peoples of the north,
Beyond all the Viking sagas and longboat raids,
A secret history that hasn’t been seen as such,
But that’s not for me, not for today. Today,
Tonight, rather, I’m thinking how that secret
Hides more universally in this species that copies
And hides but will eat from your hand. All children
Are feral, even the ones who seem tame, who
Somehow find their own way to stray, like
Daughter, little kid, little normal, ordinary kid
Floating like a speck over the depths of her own
Deep. All children are. Are. Are only. Life tames us.
Secretly, nonetheless, under all our stories
And languages, we self-domesticated souls
Remain howling things at the shoreline near dawn.
No comments:
Post a Comment