qarrtsiluni

You were the only member:
not quite domain, a hungry sect
my species. Now, a lone

attenuated form
vestigial remnant
like gar in flooded quarry pit
or possum, wire-hanger tail
and anxious crunch of kit’s
dry meal from set-out pail—

how must I mourn?

My problems are too many teeth:
they seem unduly dull

Or vegetation’s plot, perhaps—
a shift in serration
evading failure’s dentation,
the way the world mutates
beyond peripheries of sight

Do I adapt?

If so, what tune
should I now whistle—
at crepuscule, noon—
through what constructed beak
and — Lord — to whom?

by Julia Martin

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