author’s notes:

Another poem posted previously, on another blog, and recently revised.

I hope that no one ever looks at me and says, “Hard to believe he was ever a child.”

Also:  My apologies to the people of Tierra del Fuego.  The Tierra del Fuego of this poem exists not in the physical world, but in the metaphorical world.
 

WILD CHILD HOME

Perhaps you want to adopt
but can’t find
a suitable baby
in your vicinity.

Well, we still have many
crawlers from
the low-lying mountains
of Tierra del Fuego
available.

A place where
little children peck
debris from alligator teeth
as if dining
on sweet cakes.

But don’t let their feral nature
scare you.

After all, people have made pets
of marmots,
raccoons,
lemurs,
and meerkats.

However
it’s fair to warn you:

they will climb
the curtains, forage
behind walls, and squeeze
the juice from apples
with their atavistic tails.

Midnight you may find them
up the backyard tree–
             their eyes gleaming
             in your flashlight beam.

But though their scaly skin
resembles that of the pangolin–

though their saber-fangs
can pierce a human skull bone–

though they may have played
at the feet of some shady
del Fuego shamans–

they are not demonic

and I assure you
they can be housebroken
without losing their furry charms
or animal strengths–

as good Americans
they can be taught to fight
for their Presidents.
Can be trained
to scale the corporate ladder–
no matter how high
the body count–

yes,
they can learn to ignore
their own soul’s worth.

But no matter what you do
some will still gather eggs,
some will assume the mantle
of teacher,
poet,
shipbuilder.

Some will actually believe
in a peace based on earth.
Some will fly down from
aeroplanes to embrace innocents
we’ve disguised as enemies.
Some will nourish on garbage,
then rise from the pits
to breathe life back
into moribund hearts.

Who knows–?–
these instinctual babies
could lead us home–
give us new blood, blood
with the real crimson depth
of holy blood.

They will be ground to dust,
ground to perfection–
lying in the dust
until perfection lifts them up–

they are
just like the rest of us.

Everyone has to be somewhere,
but our country offers expanded scope–
that’s really the gist of it, the beauty
of all that money–so please

allow these fine fire-
ragged children scope.
Otherwise they may end
by slinging their pearls
into the dark field
of wounded hope.

© 2008, Michael R. Patton
dream steps
audacious audio