What the Animals Taught Me (Short Collection)

maritzamora
Feb 28, 2019
4 min read

Survival of the Fittest

I cracked my ribs, split the skin, there, between my breasts, and tore apart

my lungs. the seeds clumped, there, in between, were one by one plucked

by merciless predators; empathy, they cry, is a curse

Change is Nature

Evolution has made you weak. I dream of crows that speak to me in every language that has touched the earth

and in every tongue that has yet to utter syllable or breath; they grew tired of bartering

things so they began to trade words like currency they titter in the trees asking from every angle

And who will you be today? Who will you be today?

Irony is Dead (We Beat that Dead Horse)

Unlike most birds, Owls will ask a series of questions; my mother claims they only barter with dead things, would admonish us for trying to answer—

Samuel Buttler argues, “neither irony or sarcasm is argument,” but I think an argument may be found in irony; the Owl may ask and ask and never find a suitable answer—

We passed by a sign that read Pleasant Valley, Maximum Security Prison Ahead; I wondered if that hint of nut in my coffee was cyanide or cynicism—

What Women Want

He wraps around my ankles, fur soft where it touches my bared skin; bored, green eyes look up at me, unblinking.

I knew what they said about us, Apartment 13, in the dark corner of the complex with Spanish drifting between us women, and a black cat perched

on the windowsill, right next to the door and watching as the neighbors whispered under their breath: with a cat like that, and a number like that, brujas–

The cat looks at me, and finally speaks his mind: I remember when those like you had to prove in death, through suffering, that they were human

And Stick To It

He must have been aching for el rancho because my father didn’t complain when my older sister brought home two quivering chicks one late Sunday evening. I got home from college and there they were: sitting on my father’s lap and watching soccer like they had always been there; we were not a religious family but I decided to name the roosters to a theme, and since then we have been home to Papa Juan Pollo Segundo and Eggs-Benedict the Sixteenth; I do not pray anymore but I do make blasphemous jokes. I find it especially amusing how something(s) so little can connect someone to a time that, when stretched across the length of an entire lifetime, was so short yet so important, how beyond the humor of those names, these little feathery things could bring my father more than laughter, they could bring him home.

Home Is (Drop the Coordinates)

They say the Salmon swims upstream to return home to lay their future spawn; The dung beetle follows the Milky Way to navigate their movements; I tell my mother that I do not know what home is, how tired I am of Twitter poets telling me home is where my love is. I am still waiting for my skin to settle into something that feels, just maybe like—

Hands Together, Head Bowed (All Together Now)

You use it all: the bones, the feathers, the blood, and beak; we honor her by using each part; The tittering of the trees whisper blessings

with little words: the sound, the breath, the aching of their branches to reach, reach, touch— we mustn’t waste the essences of life

Release (I’m Tired of Apologizing)

The calculations need a stimulus and response, dining bells and food; bared teeth and drool, A connection in the mind: the dogs say it takes time.

A bell rings.

The calculations need a stimulus and response, a tone that makes a head bow; teeth clenched, an apology on the lips: time, time, time—

The bell rings.

A single idea, stuck in their preipherals, like the ghost of some ancient ancestor, how much time did it take to make a dog

of a wolf? Teeth bared, the sound of anger and empty promises of “not again”, they feel the burn of time, gone; no more. Released like feral—

A bell, ringing.

Harsh Truths (A One-Act Tragedy)

It’s like a modern Greek tragedy, the serpents whisper as they coil ’round my wrists, slithering a cold path up my arms; their scales make a near-silent sound drowned by their musings; yes, yes, a tragedy, how sad

Like a famished fool cursed with an appetizing buffet, take your pick, all you can ever want! But no, no, no, you lack a taste for food. You are not suicidal, child, not really, but understand that despite this you still want to die

Written in the Stars (Revisions Needed)

I dreamt about a spider weaving next to my bed that did not speak but continued, slowly, dutifully. According to google spiders in dreams can symbolize feminine power but to watch them craft can mean feeling entangled or stuck; a controlling or ensnaring force.

I have been thinking about my oldest sister, how she sat me on her lap and made us look at photos of dead bodies online; how I ached to know why the same finger she used to rub the scroll wheel was the same she used to point at the stars as we sat outside on the warm concrete of our back yard to try to catch glimpses of stars above the LA smog, listening intently as she listed off heavenly bodies. How she held my hand in hers, fingers pointed together, as we traced the lines together and she whispered andromeda into the night

The spider continues to weave: sometimes there is no black and white. When you look at the sky there are still lights there, distant, burning. Nature is neither beauty nor destruction; Like all things we do not understand, the capacity for either is unparalleled. I awake, always, wondering if “unconditional” is a blessing or a curse

It’s Different For Everyone

When I was ten, our small blue parakeet Pancho woke the house with sad peeps; his partner was stiff on the floor of the cage, dead. My mother picked up her small dead body, we placed her in a small box and buried her in the side of the house with a twig-cross. Pancho survived three more partners, and never mated with any past his first. When we buried each sky-blue bird, I felt a little sadder. A little more confused. “Your first love,” my mother will tell me years later as I wipe the snot and tears from my face, hiccuping, “will either be a precious memory or your first tragedy”