bent backs

grasses bent in a tweak of fingers

bent my fingers bent my bones

my toes in

earth sweating dew

digging a way out

sweetness

sucking on a single clover

I will count them all

shards of glass in the mirror

every part of me adds

up to nothing

I’m standing in front of violets

in front of a Renaissance painting

and wondering what do I have

When we finally start talking to each other after the fall, huddling on the side of the island where the black-eyed humans can’t hear us, we all tell the same story. A day that started with the sun rising and waking up and going off to whatever it is we do during the day.

Let’s make one thing clear:

there wasn’t a big bad wolf.

Not in my story.

There was no screaming

and running of little girls.

This is an old story;

One where

the structure of power

that had devoured