There is a hawk within me
that oft must kill to live.
What part of God is this?
While the status of the human
as prime and proper predator
is self evident,
I cannot help but fret upon
the question of the kill itself.
Am I the dainty savage with her
pinky raised while pecking
flesh of beast off sterling prongs as if
chiffon? Am I the big-bellied
belch machine extolling on the
finer points of gluttony unfettered
This could be enough for me to
ask of love and bliss to take their
leave of what it is I dwell upon
until I know my place among
the creatures that I thrive upon.
Why claim the kinder graces?
Why would I be so quite amazed
that one should die that others live?
It happens everyday. The
twisted knot of dominion is
double-bound against my own
delusion of being free to teeth into
the living fabric of this earth without a
care. Great reverence and a solemn
self appraisal might accompany the
hand raised against the breath of
being in another.
As for this hawk within that soars
in warm ascension yet will plunge
by sheer default I pray that I
will die with what I kill
to any thought of claiming right,
instead beseech my prey to live
it’s life through me and I through it.