eat the anthrosphere
histories in rust and ice,
telling their children about the taste
of iron fish, of mercury in pores
and the smell of sawdust called forth
by the name of a field, of a birdbath
left alone, hailing this quiet country.
eat the anthropocene
what are limbs to me and what’s mine,
calling the cold country by the air it breathes,
culling the cold country with air.
harsh light, its digits swimming in sand,
and the epiphanies that come with every meal
skipped in the name of a field.
eat the anthropologist
whose skin is swimming in linen,
how much capital went into its thread count,
it’s like a skies’ worth of shrinking pitches.
tenderly, tender, tinder smouldering
and such skinny fists breathe the gap,
a country hushes a border falling:
the silence is still happening.