A Keening

Ganesh broke off one tusk
and we have The Mahabharata.
I cannot manage one single
nail of my finger.

There are days I cannot
bear even a thought of the
torture, the pain, the cruelty;
cannot look at one more

sensational photograph of
slaughter for profit.  But if I
cannot bear it, what must
they carry.  Dying and orphaned

and voiceless — No — not
voiceless, but screaming in a
vacuum to the willfully
deaf.

I do long, truly long, to lie in
the dust of their wake, to roll
in their mud baths, to root against
their tough hides and trunks, to

bury my face in the musky mats
of their manes. Not even the melting
faces of wounded human women, not
even the bloated bellies of crying

human children quicken my soul as do
images of their tuskless, hornless
heads and skinless bodies still
quivering with life.

I don’t know why.
I don’t know why.

I do know, have always known,
that we slay, each time we
slay, our own Humanity when
we cut them down.

I know that the theft of skin and
bone and fur and life results not
in strength or power or potency for
mankind, but in loss.

Just Loss.
Only Loss.

For all the world.

©sdrogers 12 august 2013

Fight Poaching

Fight Poaching

2 thoughts on “A Keening

  1. “each time we slay, our own humanity when we cut them down” such power in your words. This is a truly heart wrenching truthful poem.

  2. CatGem says:

    thank you, Lisa

Thank you for letting me know you were here.

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