Wildness Unafraid

By Tim Murphy

 

What if trees could talk?
No. Of course they do.
What if we could hear
them speak
just beneath our feet?

What if birds of all feathers
who lift the sky with song
and frame it with flight
told us
what names to call them?

What if we could simply bathe
in wonder at the coyote’s
wild music of the night,
not needing to demonize
to feel alive?

What if we listened deeply,
heeding the ancient wisdom
of the many worlds unknown
contained in this one
we don’t own?

What if we let other beings
live alongside us
outside the long, lonely shadows

cast by our fear
of our own wildness?

 


Tim Murphy (he/him) is a disabled civil rights attorney, environmentalist, and poet who lives in Portland, Oregon. His writing explores the natural world, disability, and the climate crisis. Tim’s work is featured in Remington ReviewLivina Press, and The Long Covid Reader, a collection published in November 2023. Tim can be found on Instagram and Twitter, @brokenwingpoet.

Image credit: “Howl” by U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.


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Man with a Knife

By Beth Levine

 

Imagine
that this letter S
floats off the page
becomes a strong
rope
that wraps your hands together behind
your back, like officers do
before putting someone in
the back of a police car.

Imagine
that this letter S floats
off the page and becomes a second
strong rope
one end wraps
around your
left leg
the other hoists you up from
where you are reading this poem so
you are
hanging
upside
down.

Imagine
a man coming toward you
knife in hand
pointing at your throat.
You see
blood on his knife
blood on his hands.
There is no
possible escape.
No one to call on
for help.
No way to free
yourself.
You are
trapped.
Alone.

Imagine
how your heart
desperately races as fast
as a jackhammer and your body shakes
like an off-kilter washing machine,
and you can’t seem to breathe and
helpless tears well-up.

Imagine
how you beg for
your life, for
mercy, but your voice is smaller
than you want it to be,
like when you try to wake
from a scary dream
and you scream, but it is not audible,
not rescuing you
from the nightmare and
you keep pushing the air out
until the sound bursts from your lungs.

Imagine
how the man
keeps coming.
You try
to move him, to
touch his heart, but
his eyes are
vacant and he keeps moving
toward you,
knife in hand.
You wonder how he can be
so cold.
You wouldn’t
ever
ever
do this to another.
You couldn’t
ever
disregard their pleas.

Or could you?

Imagine
bacon.

Imagine
ice cream,
your down comforter,
zoos.

Imagine
your leather shoes,
and eggs.

Imagine
chicken wings.

Now you are the man with the knife.

 


Beth is a psychotherapist and an animals rights activist. She shares her life with two dogs, and enjoys hearing bird songs and being in nature. In her work, whether poetry, art, or both, she helps the marginalized be seen and heard and hopes to contribute to social change by raising awareness.

Photo by Kai Oberhäuser on Unsplash.