They are the color of golden french fries.
Drought brings them inside for water.
Already I have killed six
where they froze sensing movement.
If the orange bulb of venom did not dance
with hurt like a bauble hung to catch light,
I would scoop each onto a page
of white and carry them out to the field.
But fear races this heart.
The orange bulb pulses and I toss a tome
flattening these small lives.
Rain would save us this grief
like a widely arced flag of surrender.
A truce would ensue between creatures
and these books, these tomb markers
would rise and regain alignments on shelves.
These weighted words, these poisons –
these sabers rattled against what’s not
understood. I am the color of killing,
more orange than the bauble of tails.


Image courtesy of Annie Dalton


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