Judges

There is nothing beautiful about us.
We are not the Okapi: legs of a zebra,
gait of giraffe, prehistoric muzzle,
heart strong as wood, whose home
was where its bed was, or might be.
No. We are not. We are stumped
like our forests. We stomp into deserts
like drunk chameleons, gas every
cubit, call it defensive, then graze
on the still-growing hair of the grave
yard, manes long as Samson's—Samuel!
God's gift to Hannah! Samson! Flim
flammed by whores, their slippery
feelings, sweet-water whispers, bosomy
sponges. I know a Sam. We all know
a Sam. I have a son. His name isn’t Sam,
but he’s the nicest paleontologist.
He’s after a carcass the color of breast
milk, a particular femur, longitudinal
sliver, has another thing coming that isn’t
so precious—that our quest should deceive
us, hood our good eyes, tip the seesaw
of peacetime! Shame on the zealous
and jealous. Shame on the half-fish god
who dined on himself and survived.

Copyright © 2006 Larissa Szporluk All rights reserved
from Margie
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission