You're an eagle, and
it's not your fault.
Your freedom
is dangerous to them.
You watch
these content chickens
starting their lives everyday
at exactly 7 a.m., talking about expensive bread, about the
weather, the crops this year,
last night's game.
Their voices are so low,
even in dreams, even in thoughts.
They dress quietly. They walk
in light steps, heads down,
shoulders hunched. They only kiss
behind locked doors.
They only squeal in
the moment
before the slaughter.
And all you want,
all you ever wanted is
to interrupt their careful hisses
with the sound of your wings
clapping as you
