Once you start stabbing people who deserve it,
where do you stop? So many worthy candidates.
Macbeth’s problem. At least he had a wife to blame.
There are always going to be witches,
cackling over cauldrons, to set you thinking,
woods to get lost in mid-life,
battles to come back from
with your mind on chores left undone
back at the castle, scores to settle,
slights to avenge. The moat needs draining,
the murder holes are low on oil,
and that distant relative chained
to the dungeon wall has a dentist’s appointment.
No need to question where these messages
come from, this clarity that allows you
to see through the steam rising off the cauldron,
see past the warts, the sneers
on the faces of the messengers.

Between the size of a hummingbird’s skull
and a whale, we take pride
in being able to walk upright
while thumbing a keypad
and telling our friends what we’re seeing,
thinking, planning, preparing to do.
A hummingbird will not hesitate to attack
a human being if it thinks it’s a threat.
What a whale thinks as it sinks
through the planet’s wet skin,
no one knows. But, whatever it is,
it makes them sing.