Judges 18: In Writing

 Small Cruelties

After Danusha Laméris

I've been thinking about the way, when you walk

past a forgotten flower pot, it seems so easy

to snatch it. Or how overhanging oranges

tempt us, a leftover, perhaps, from Eden. How easily

“I want,” becomes “mine”.

And sometimes, when we hold

a marker, someone else will grab it.

Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other. But

we want that extra big piece

of chocolate cake, with the perfect

swirl of cream. Want the purple marker,

and that specific “Gummy bear” song. 

We have so little control, always. So far

from the enclosed garden, with a heavy hanging

fig tree and a gate that can slam shut. Only

these two hands. Not so large. Not so powerful.

These hands, and the weapons we pick

up along the way. Sticks. Words.

What if these are our only nodes of exchange,

when we pass each other on our solitary prowls, 

erecting fleeting temples to our gnawing needs. Saying, “Mine”

“Give or I’ll take it.” Saying, “Let’s see you stop me. Please.”