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On the Cutting Stone
Some days I fly like an eagle,
some days I waddle like a duck—
today I’m fried chicken
crispy, cold, out of luck.
Some days I run with wild horses,
some days I hunt with the wolfpack—
today I’m a belly-up snake
on asphalt cracked and black.
Oh, how I swam with dolphins,
struck like white sharks through foam—
today I’m gutted salmon,
smoked and salted far from home.
On the cutting stone.
Some days I prowl like a panther
through jungle thick and green—
today I am scraps for rodents
on a stranger’s kitchen floor unseen.
Some days I howl with coyotes
at moons both dark and bright—
today I’m roadkill possum
as vultures circle, rip and fight.
Now I feel like a broken song
my voice ground coarse and gray,
wondering what cruel appetite
has left me spayed flayed betrayed.
On the grinding stone.
It’s the hollowness of silence
when the wild has moved on through,
and you’re served up on life’s table—
nothing left that’s truly you.
It’s the break when seasons stagger
when the night gnaws through the bone,
the crack where time is splintered
and the sky abandons its throne.
On the whetstone
I lie between migrations—
wildness gone, yet not my own.
Not on my own, not on my own—
On the tombstone.
Caught within the fault-line
turning like a prayer all alone all alone... so alone.
Wait—
the Potter’s shaping stone.
Copyright ©
Daniel Henry Rodgers
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