The prairies have been filled
and that year the spring grass
was being pulled, dominated
and replaced with a too-green, carpet facade
Nevermore the prariedogs rise
but rather the suburbanites
reaching for hot mugs of the fruit of your family’s labor
I was conceived that year
When autumn descended into black, starless nights
the earth was still in mourning after receiving you so violently
and violently the misanthropes misbehaved giving a peace offering to their
violent god that sits enthroned behind the vinyl siding in every
passive cul-de-sac
Were the faces of the ravens the same as those of the cardinals?
They were confused, weren’t they, father?
They didn’t know what fruit a dead seed could produce
