to prevent pain,
this is where we bite the bullet where the bullet takes our teeth and we ask for the cartridge as a memento
Not with the squirrel bones braided through your red hair, not with the grass in your teeth or the blood on your fur—to stay safe, stay still or play dead.
If you move, move loud, move now. If we were the wild we could leave together. Hop the train before it reaches the trestle; it’s time to leave. Coal cars floating through the slick night, a chain of black violas and the burnt houses haunting the countryside will follow you into the trembling cities; it’s time to leave.
Hold to that old mumpsimus of the irreparable heart because the soil doesn’t hold the oaks, the roots clutch for life. If it lets go, we can kill it.
If you listen to the insects, you can hear their tiny prayers—their prayers deafen the fields.
Words fail us and we beg them not to. Chirp. Scurry.
Bury your head in my chest one last time, but deep, deeper, deeper. You must make a choice. Tell me to stay and let me hate you, tell me to leave and let me love you. Tell the insects to stop.