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)