I pick
every precious birch seed
from the upholstery —
each a tiny butterfly,
the symbol and reality
of survival,
all together the innards
of a death rattle.
I am vulture
nobly feasting on corpses
finding nourishment
in others’ discarded memories.
I am misunderstood
and maligned but necessary.
I cannot be
other than what I am
despite persistent claw, tooth,
and verbal thrashing.
I am a sea mollusk
on dry land
shell eroded by time
wincing
at the constant drizzle
of salt.
Why do we cuddle dogs
in our arms
but leave squirrel bodies
on the asphalt?
I cried for three blocks
at the sight of his splayed,
bloodied body,
and my own
ineptitude.
I pretend to stretch my calves
for an excuse to lean
against trees as prayer
and anchor,
beseeching their trunks
to drain accumulated vibrations
and return those
to the Earth
like a lightning rod.
I once wrote
an esteemed author
who chronicles the worst
of human cruelty.
I asked him how he could.
He replied
he preferred the company
of children and beasts.
Thirty years later
I understand.
I am learning to trust
the images behind my retinas
over the ones
before my pupils.
I am the one who spots
the bats and hummingbirds
others take for granted
or simply
disbelieve.
© S. Rinderle, February 2025
Published in Fixed and Free Poetry Quarterly June 2025.
