by Erik Amundsen
They wrote you with the blood of foxes, they wrote you
with the blood of swine and a ball of twine, red, coarse fibers
and a finger twist. Remember this and otherwise,
a document of skin and sight, folded, sewn and bound,
slid into any shelf, I'll bear it down. They wrote you
with the blood of pheasants, and they wrote you
with the blood of cod and played the odds, the columns,
and each figure's list; make book on you and every bet
a hash mark, a responsibility we share,
fold you over, then pull until you tear.
They wrote you with the blood of pigeons,
and they wrote you with the blood of hares and the grains
and tares, and in the fire, we are paper like an onion skin.
And I confess, admit and take the blame, but not alone,
because I went, but was also taken to the places we have been.
They wrote you with the blood of lions, they wrote you
with the blood of men and women, some you've never known,
some before you, so long before had flown, and Gods, I want them
I want them back so I can see them, so I can thank and kiss
and kick each one as they deserved, and I want that they should
read you so to see how well you've served, for maybe
you are not the message that you were meant to send,
or wholly owned, but just the lend.
Erik Amundsen has been removed from display for being zoologically improbable and/or terrifying to small children. He has been sighted in Goblin Fruit, Mythic Delirium and Jabberwocky but his natural habitat is the swamps of central Connecticut.
Read Erik's discussion of this poem over at the Roundtable!