We love
to be reminded
of the enemies we’ve killed
so walls are filled
with trophies
and crudely scratched out
signatures
that certify each victory,
we frame what we call art.
Fire,
mostly still confined,
is scented, colored,
and circled with glass,
mischievous children
and their parents
snuff out wicks with fingertips
or blow away numbered flames
on birthdays.
Dark
is where
we’re comfortable,
hunched over and grunting,
we make our way
each night
to the same hole
to neither see
nor think.
The young sleeping monster
Rests his snoring head
On a cave
Nearly empty,
Except for two bloody bits
Of bone.
Nothing dares disturb the
Solitude except one other,
Larger beast.
Reaching into the
Pocket of darkness
With claws outstretched,
She holds her breath,
Snatching and substituting
With invisible instinct.
Then retreating into the night,
She clutches
Her stolen piece
Of childhood fantasy.
