Osiris

For NaPoWriMo

 

I tread the field

and crush the budding flower heads,

the scuttling beetle spiders underfoot.

I burn tree wood and smoke the air

and take the car to rifle supermarkets

of packaged goods from across the world.

I eat and have someone kill and chop

and eviscerate for my dainty palate,

and I spit and defecate the remains,

laugh in the wind at the birds that die

from want of grubs in my poisoned garden.

So far away the peasant who lies down

and dies beneath the last tree in the jungle.

 

And yet and yet,

I love my dog.

Will that be enough?

And who’s to judge?

Osiris cares little enough for spider beetles

and dead peasants,

and would marvel at missiles.

So all’s well in this balance

of death and death.