Email Poem

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Poem

You are alive,
squirming in my hand
like a dissatisfied infant
or a fish searching for water.
You are alive, we are alive.
There is something the same in us-
some spark undefinable,
except by contrast to its cold absence: death.
You have a mind and survival instincts
and stoic eyes like a sixth sense I cannot recognize.

The quiet of the dissection room
is heavy like the quiet of a tomb.
You would not understand my appology
and are too young yet to sing,
as I damn you to this silence eternally.
What is the gentlest way to end a life?
Oh certainly not this.
And which thought is more sickening
that God will not forgive this small act of killing
or that He deem it no sin in need of forgiving?

You were alive in my hands.
I am alive, you were alive.
You were in my hand.
Now everything should be different,
but life is so fragile and commonly broken
that everything keeps moving.
Like Cain, like Ivan, I keep moving
because life is for the living, for the killers,
for the things that bite 
wandering the earth until they too are bitten.

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