for Mark
by P. G. Karamesines
Never before had life spoken in such terms.
“Oh, and, I took your beloved but in his place, see?
I put this bend-branch crop of golden peaches.”
What am I to make of such animal fraudulence
as squares a fruit harvest with the reap of his life?
This is fairy ciphering that toys with changelings.
The reckoning of cats that sets mouse guts at the door.
Adonai splitting winnings, refurnishing Job in kind.
Peaches as man gold, quittance for a taken husband.
And a Nature that can’t read irony in its wind-borne
seed, some lit upon fertile ground and no difference
in opinion for the most, broken on rock. Its viral skill
at surrogating cells. Its bacterial nose for opportunity.
Its epochs of extinction articulated as stones. So clambers
wisdom by its elbows onto natural selection’s mud flat.
If only life had turned him out like dandelion fluff—
by the hundreds, the thousands—out in the abundance
of mushroom spore, seahorse fry, ghost moth eggs.
If only, slipping through a breeze’s fingers or tumbling
in riffles down a neat streamlet, some expression of him
had found just five happy crèches cobbled, cradling
life, and in one of those lived it out as do brutes
of lesser spine and no conscience at all. But!
Survival favors the vandal over the charitable mind.