Matt Dennison

The Clapping Tree

I hope it’s worth it, this dying inside—
whiskey, salt, tobacco and then a moment
of hunger—flour and fat's dour tickle.
My ovaries are crippled, my eggs
no good. I was life! the ball and
feather falling multi-crumbled
in the language of entropy, babies
so terrible they’d suck murder
from the sky, ranchers milking
moon-cows, soldiers reporting
to duty, little birds coin-spilled
across the table. I never complained.
I swept them off: clap fears, placentas
eaten raw, Gods’ and fathers’ rabid tongues
wobbling in ecstasy—all cause for exhaustion.
I am tired. Tired of this house. Tired of this ravening.
It has been so long since I studied life with fire.