A Mocker
That weapon
your laughter
that peals
like a bell,
that hammers,
concussive,
shocking the target,
and clearing a space
around your tall form,
thin as a mage’s—
your’s is the force of a wind
that sweeps all away.
It rings out its triumph,
derisive, a cackle,
delighted with self.
You, in your power,
privilege and wit,
pleased with your wealth.
Under Predatory Stars
Tired by struggle,
I lay on my back
In the grass
Like one flung from heaven,
And then like a snake,
Wounded and limp,
Dragging its length,
Condemned to the dust
Though fierce,
Showing its spine
Of breakable bone,
A shield of no use,
As easily crushed
As its poisonous head,
Turned over, slept.
