My Three Wishes
If I were king of the ants,
I’d long to be king of the flies.
If I were king of the flies,
I would lust for the locusts’ throne.
While waging a famine of seven plagues,
I’d wish to rule over birds of prey.
Sky at my back, blood in my beak,
I’d ask for a mouth and a set of sharp teeth.
I would ask for legs, arms, the bellowing roar
of the grizzly. Then I would want a voice,
a language, the machinations of industry
found only in thumbprints of the lonely.
To know the silence of the vacuum of space,
I’d build rockets to propel me from this robin’s egg,
into that rich black pupil of an open eye
of someone forgetting what it must be like — to be born.