Sometimes we give them a hard time, the martyrs.
Look at you – we shout – with your tragic backstory
and your little legs and your incompetent veins.
Want me to knit you a hair-shirt? Sometimes we
shout that too (even though you can’t knit hair). Or
we go Dudda Da Duuuh like we’re Beethoven’s
Fifth Symphony kicking in. The martyrs meanwhile
don’t abate. They are dancing across the kingdoms
of this world and the next. They are relentless
terpsichoreans. Even their sneezes sound like Ravel’s
Bolero. Even the candlewax dropped on their smocks
makes ornamental masterpieces of their sleeves.
Most of us these days are dead or on autopilot
As for the wolves – they thrive
There are too many wolves – some complain bitterly
They pad into the butchers
They make off with small inflatables and sail about
like Vikings licking their bloody chops
Others can’t get enough of their uptick
– their soundless transition from wilderness spook
to denizen of the high street where they glide up and
down, up and down or bask in the rubble
while the acolytes forage like mad
for something to offer them – Kentucky
Fried Chicken. Small birds.
Image © Jr Korpa