When you delete a wing or limb from a creatures’ form, it will inevitably cry out against this taking.
Lucie Brock Brodio
Who will listen
to the futile wailing against the sawtooth
of pare and scrape and suture. Who will notice
a once gently curved chest, now smooth as a flatiron?
Who will hear the heavy breath
of resignation, the off-balance slosh
of water flooding over the rough stone path
until all that is left are dry sockets,
until all that was severed scabs & scars over
like moss covering a tree root.
Previously Published in ONE ART: a journal of poetry on October 13, 2021.