It would take the lens of a raindrop to see my armour –
and who would get that close? And who would think to?

Call it teeth, call it battleaxe, call it blade. When you bite me,
beware – I’ve seen the mouths of ancient horses bleeding.

I’ve worn blood like you wear a coat. It nourished me.
I’ve been eaten and shat out – battleaxe, blade and all.

Reptiles, mammals. They ate for months and died en masse,
their guts too infant, teeth too sharp to be useful.

I wept, then strengthened my armour. And waited
for the creatures who grew long hind teeth, and stone ones.

from Small Grass  (Stonewood Press)


Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *