I bet you thought I'd given up. I did not. I did write myself into a corner and then I got terribly busy and every time I would open the file I would think, fuck, fuck, fuck. But last night, as I was explaining to my new poetry students that they would have to write 2 poems a week, I thought, a) 2 poems a week is a lot and I am almost unreasonable to ask it; and b) I guess I should hold myself to some kind of similar standards?
"They don't have to be good," I told my students, "but there have to be two of them."
Anyway, here is my one poem which is not particularly good, but is 14 lines closer to the end of this dumb idea.
Let them curse us, let them hurl their taunts,
spittled words mottling the dust at our feet.
They rail at what they’re not allowed to want—
lusts souring on the vine while ours grow sweet.
And what is rage but an old neglected grief
that rots in their bellies? They’ve swallowed
their own dark hungers, professed belief
in a god who will not bless the world
he’s made: how the tayberry longs for the mouth;
how the cherry’s tart flesh craves the teeth.
Hear the bee’s thick buzz in the blossom’s pout
as she tastes and sucks, gathers the nectar beneath.
It’s a hymn, a call, our damnable creed.
Oh, but the juicy pulp, those bright and sticky seeds.
It is not lost on me that there's no explicit dino-content in this poem, but it is at least erotic-ish and I think the dinosaur was well-established in the previous 7 poems which start here.
(I've been stuck on this for months. I think we should all cut me some slack.)