God's Creatures
Crabs tip toe along the bottom
daintily picking at morsels
with their crushing claws.
This is an arena for carnivores,
creatures made for tearing flesh,
or picking carcasses clean
with a kiss.
Hinged mouths
engineered for swallowing whole
lay in wait in mud or stalk
weedy hideouts for prey.
Others prowl oceans
fitted with rows of serrated teeth
or have bellies as big as trucks
to house their kill.
Some have arms studded
with vacuum cups
that caress and hide
a deadly beak pouched
just below a brain.
No screams
can be heard here or, if let loose,
find a register in the human ear.
Pain is tapped out in tiny tremors
too subtle for our senses
to feel, death
signaled by a surface splash
or kept out of sight.
The suffering is seismic.
Blake's terrestrial tiger pales
to a pussy-cat compared
to the arrayed instruments
of slaughter that have
a home here. God must love
these killers to witness
the pain of their bite
or else floats anesthetized
in an infinite,
dreamless state.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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