Wisdom Teething #2

Wisdom teeth being born in the back of a mouth.
Ripping, bleeding, clawing their way crawling out.
Peaking shy heads above gums.
Endless exploration by a torn and tearing tongue.
Even pushing, at times, as if muscle could make bone
retreat back inside, hide, in the calcium kernels
with roots gripped into my jaw.

Wiser than us all.

Wisdom teeth came in like men riding mares,
looking up and seeing stars, answering their call.

The wisest of us all.

Brave enough to go and grow
where they have not once
ever been called.


Dead calves stacked.
Open like their eyes.
By vultures.
Scared off a flock pulling up.
Turkeys escape over my right shoulder.
And little mouths that never nursed hang open.
I close in. To empty a barn full on top of them.
Burying them. Bearing them. Like trash.

These people.

Life stock.
Plain and simple.
You know that it is, what it means, don’t you?
Whenever you’ve got livestock, you’ve got deadstock.
Just a part of farming.
You can be a farmer.

Just as long as you don’t find that alarming.

Dad always said I worked harder for a fire than anything else.

The Good Shepherd

I am the good shepherd. I am also the wolf.
Only fools believe the keepers of sheep hold no ulterior motive.
No hunger for warmth or meat. So if you decide to stay,
do not do so because of fear for what is being held back by the dark,
or for what is glimpsed in the fleeting flash of a spark. Stay,
and you will be kept. I will pasture you in my heart.

My mind is still yet fit and able to be roof above your stable.
And even wolves have become sweet and soft,
brown eyes beg food at the end of my table.

Let me not be like a father or a mother. But as equals,
in friendship, we all, good sheep and shepherds,
will learn to keep up with each other.