wonderful

as a child

i smooshed a spider dead-

relieved

at having rid our home

of such a menace

i looked to my parents

with pride

how will you

bring that life back

my father asked,

what will you do

to replace what you have taken?

i wonder

about the balance of things

especially now

soaring precariously over the land

of my nation

having just left

the land of my birth

and the land of my father

and his fathers,

before him-

and i wonder

if it isn't just a story

we tell ourselves;

that we can ever

replace what we've taken

seems like make-believe

or the simple shaping

of a child's character

to, you hope,

one of respect

and empathy.

i'm starting to wonder

if the world

doesn't get less and less light-

if that deep

and ancient fire

doesn't die a little

with each extinguished

breath-

though, truth be told,

i'm sick of explanations

and find the reasoning

weak,

and full of holes.

i didn't die

in the cannon-force explosion

of the harpoon gun

shot from a heart of stone

with a cold, accurate aim

and i wonder,

why not?