Matthew Brady Klitsch
He doesn’t feel pain. But doesn’t he know
he’s dying? He doesn’t. For what must be
for the sake of it, the woodchuck eats
like I eat. His pulverizing teeth, smacking
black lips, thin and consuming dandy.
While in my own country, pain too is faceless.
Almost nothing like a pain at all and whose writhing
is like cracked sunlight and the blast that’s love
forgets its own explosion in the face of a river
as it washes its wiry, knitted body. Bringing me
back, the whole engine of his mouth
makes its half-click, half-pop, paralyzing nothing—
not me and not the churning clusters of wraiths
in my own body. I believe in the ecstatic
digestion but hardly reel as the tiny ticker above
goes off like a bomb and the mess feels
like an overgrown lawn set to the mad
shaking of a heartless wind. It’s decent,
humane even, to jerk the lashing creation up
by his scruff, spit back at the gnashing blaze of plotting
teeth, and hammer quickly the hypodermic before
the entire country, his entire body, knows what happened.