Not a Bad World, Is It?
       

Too bad I'm not an ocelot. Too bad I cannot be
a warbler or a lorikeet. A shame I woke up
human again this morning—dry-mouthed,
sullen, reading cruelties we have done
now to our own. By nature, it seems.
A shame I cannot be a glasswing butterfly
hidden in the world. Too bad I've got these
mosquito bites—ankles, arms, one
prickling my forehead. Too bad I'm stuck
inside this body, too bad I'm numb, good thing
I'm alive to cleave each bump with a fingernail,
I guess. Leave small engraved Xs, I guess.
A shame I'm not a colt. A shame we still
kill each other over land, beliefs, nothing.
The story I read that haunts me happened
last century, the one I'm struggling to
tell you now: a father, a meat grinder, a heavy
bag, the drive, the drop-off—Here's your
missing husband. A shame, a shame.
In time they'll vanish, all these crosses
I scored into my flesh. In time I might say yes.

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Copyright © 2021 David Hernandez All rights reserved
from The Southern Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission