Lord, I ain’t asking to be the Beastmaster

gym-ripped in a jungle loincloth

or a Doctor Dolittle or even the expensive vet

down the street, that stethoscoped redhead,

her diamond ring big as a Cracker Jack toy.

All I want is for you to help me flip

off this lightbox and its scroll of dread, to rip

a tiny tear between this world and that, a slit

in the veil, Lord, one of those old-fashioned peeping

keyholes through which I can press my dumb

lips and speak. If you will, Lord, make me the teeth

hot in the mouth of a raccoon scraping

the junk I scraped from last night’s plates,

make me the blue eye of that young crow cocked to

me—too selfish to even look up from the black

of my damn phone. Oh, forgive me, Lord,

how human I’ve become, busy clicking

what I like, busy pushing

my cuticles back and back to expose

all ten pale, useless moons. Would you let me

tell your creatures how sorry

I am, let them know exactly

what we’ve done? Am I not an animal

too? If so, Lord, make me one again.

Give me back my dirty claws and blood-warm

horns, braid back those long-

frayed endings of every nerve tingling

with all I thought I had to do today.

Fork my tongue, Lord. There is a sorrow on the air

I taste but cannot name. I want to open

my mouth and know the exact

flavor of what’s to come, I want to open

my mouth and sound a language

that calls all language home.

