The Animals Come, Take.

Prepare yourself, young poets,
soon, you will be without shield
loved, worthy, enough
but aching.

And the
cats dance into the forest
taking with them your letters.
Pinning words against trees, making stanzas
in the nests. Shaking free the fruits
to
sour and rot, a dozen or so.
Prepare yourself, young poets,
soon, you will scavenge for verse.
Pain your husbands.
Shame your mothers.

Still, you have not known hunger
until weightless, dizzied
you watch animals flooded from
the bush, make way to your
homes. And without shield,
you are loved, worthy, enough.