Heavens Who Never Answered
your mother taught you how to pray proper,
to sink to your knees and petition the sky,
but you rarely paid any mind to the gods.
you learned young that being holy would never
tame the beasts in your life, and you learned:
never have faith in that which cannot be seen.
I watched you laugh under the trees, canines sharp,
snaring the moonlight, naming yourself a wolf;
bitter howls to heavens who never answered you.
thing is, I never met a wolf who didn't bite.
you wanted to rupture the forest apart,
provoke immense descension to decay,
scorch the wood to ash in your palms.
listen. hear: the willows are crying for your blood
more than they ever did for mine.