Then our hearts grew claws
and we lived in a cold reach,
twice-a-day tides,
the lows and the highs,
and we were drawn to our desires
salted and seeping from a bag.
What we thought was happiness
was set and tied and marked
in a rocking up above us,
one end a buoy,
colored and numbered,
the other end a cage.
And because all work
demands a wage,
we walked along the bottom
toward the funnel of the future,
in through the wide end
and out through the narrow,
and found ourselves in a kitchen
and then a parlor,
where we waited,
hungry still,
to be lifted.
Gary J. Whitehead’s most recent books are Strange What Rises and A Glossary of Chickens.
