Issue 7 – Myers1

Tim J. Myers


Fearful and ashamed of our own sinfulness,
we often shift the blame for the worst of crimes—

it can’t be us, our humanity—no:
Like animals! we say,
(that phrase so quick to our lips),
a bestial attack!
crowding into those words
our horror at what our we’re capable of,
voices shrill with denial…

Meanwhile, along Rwandan slopes,
the silverbacks herd their families
and sniff the wet air of the rain forest
alert for the scent of approaching men,
dimly imagining, perhaps,
their own skulls made into ashtrays—

and the mole, as forest moonlight
falls with even softness on his furrows,
goes digging his blind way on,
never breaking a single law
between the pit of hell and the vaults of heaven.