a literary journal published by the Black Earth Institute dedicated to re-forging the links between art and spirit, earth and society
I pray to die snuggled in bed
by friends and good family,
by singing friends who will remember me dancing.
Not to die on the street in that sideways rain of bullets
in a classroom facing that angry kid
in a bomb shelter knowing the end
of the world I had dreaded since the failure of the Peaceful Atom to suck back
into itself all radiation,
all weapons of mass delusion, all penultimate
petulance, all the speciesidal probabilities,
Just let me die of peace, instead,
in bed alone or in the woods,
then feed me to the hungry, deserving bear
or the gorgeous, swooping
buzzard, that lonely and wrongfully hated creature
who has the patience and decency to wait for its prey
to say goodbye out of love.
Cycle me back into life immediately
on those black wings
who cup upside down
the spiral-inducing thermals.
On these I will rise,