Jessie Hennen

I have grown massive and snappish. The backyard’s

greens are not green at all, they’re too vibrant.

They own the potency of theft. They flare.

They could make a little dog disappear,

could soften his barks, smother him with dank

leaves, twine pine boughs round his legs and

carry him down, into the dirt, to join

the others. The dogs down there don’t try

to bark anymore. Their snouts were filled with

earth, then became earth, and now they’re lying

in wait for friends. They too bay shut up, shut

up, what are you yelling about, it’s all fine.

Everyone’s alive. Shouting won’t change a

thing. We’ve discovered this, as earth.