There Is No Peace in Wild Things

By Wesley Houp

Good morning, owl.
Here are your four white mice.
When I look in your eyes,
I see nothing.
No peace, no wisdom.
Not one little shit
of care for anything
I’d consider worthy of care.
Like your permanently
fucked up wing.
It droops from your
right shoulder
like it could drop off
at any moment.
But you’re a wild thing.
You’re also incarcerated
in this aviary
beside a hawk
whose right wing
is also permanently fucked.
Neither one of you
could give a shit.
Everything you know,
outside the instinct to live
and breed is violent.
Wild things live
and die violently.
If I left your cage open tonight,
and you freed yourself,
your very presence
in the wild
would call down
violence.
Does it matter that
the first Great Horned
to spot you would tear
your head from
your lame body?
There is no peace
in wild things.