some of them gave in to the sin of the time
back then things were different, a little out of line
the priestess in the forest would shed her clothes
and worship at the altar, praying "lie with me
O lusting gods of nature"
prostrate beneath her the ceaseless spring
flows with the muscles of
the mule, the man
and the ritual begins

who do you think you are
O she says, i am winter, begging for spring
when and where and why
show me, in the stars, aye
climbing the stairs, black and white
hooves breaking, knees shaking
on the stone steps
and the two men pull hard
pulling the she calf forward
and she is behind the priestess
and the knife in her neck
quick judgement, blood flowing
pain exploding, bucking, throeing
rubbed on the native robes
they're raking my shoulders for meat
she thinks
as her life recedes
taken by the beasts around her
the humans are good planners, they gouge swiftly,
  saying no words of me as i die
and so i am eaten, bloody still
and an upside down triangle is smeared
on the mating ecclesiast's breasts
as the living choir croons
and she sings the spring in: lonely
spring, come, i am calling
i call with the fanfare of the mild stream
and the coupling mosquitos above

padding through the forest
a young boy i shouldn't have gone there
i didn't understand
they pulled me away so soon
the accusations already fully planned
 -- the humans are good planners, you know --
their words hit me like bullets, their
anger heat on my body, against what, my
mere open arms?  such a marvel it is, i
think, that i can stand here aided by no
one and generate so much hate;
i was created, they had made a life for me,
and i loved it with the welcome love of
nature, the eager love to help; the honest
intentions of childhood; condemned for
this and that, i lose my way and think
what marvels now may come; none, for they
have all left me.

and so they did leave me; they left me
back by the stone rotunda so naked, blood-smeared
wrey could sing in a way i never before heard sung,
low tones catching in her throat and sitting on a man,
odd, that they should leave me here, here, the
cage where the outlander mutters and stares
in sullen rage; i toss him a gourd, the
filthy man, all covered in furs, and i eat, thinking
you know me not, no words that i speak; your
hate stares out through greasy, kingly lenses, filtering
and aligning me against you, yet still we are in planned communion;
have we not spoken for years?  the flash of your eyes do
not flash the way you imagine them to; i should
let you go, and so i do.

the fur-covered man hit me in the face,
grabbed the knife from my waist, and stabbed
then hestitated then left me alone, running silently
with a jumpy quickness through the mire,
like a rabbit.

later my people came and asked me why i had
deserted them.  who had deserted?  a man had
deserted; he had run away, and i had let him.  how
odd, i thought, that there is so much hate in the
world, for now they put me in his place, in the
metal cage.

sometimes i sit silently, sometimes i
pace, but mostly i feel no rage, for how many years
has it been since they have started raging over pebbles.
it's too hard to understand, they say --
you'll know how to deprive a man of his food
when he threatens yours or when there's war on the wind
and the babies are wailing for more.

i say it has all been
planned; rage was made by the starving man in the slaughter,
or the slaughtering man convinced of his righteousness, it
is all the same, rage is not made of reasons but of rage; fear
for this and act like that they say, but the world is all the
same to me.  why should it anger me?  what is a human without
hate?  none of them seem to know.

modern temples and modern tempests, but all i can hear
is the howling of the wind.

 - "Boy," Connelly Barnes, 2007-02-10