Wordle 203


Brenda Warren

The monkeys come,

Rustling from their parapets

A plague of shrieks born

From their dry, uncompromising throats.

A rebellion that speaks

To all the niches of our inhumanity.

Eyes full of soul

And intent as shot marbles.

These almost humans,

Which we force to perform as such,

Do not exist to fill our vacancies.

The sweet, inarticulate youth

Blasphemous in the arousal of sexuality

Will grow unwieldy, unprecedented

And all those careful hierarchies

Will reverse themselves, quite suddenly.

A penchant toward savagery

They loiter the decks of the wealthy

A trellis snuffing the lights of demarcation.

There is nothing whole

In the promise of captivity.

These wild things,

Who in fury unmask our faces

Have a right to rule

Their own dominion

And though their familiar hands

Tear gaily at our heartstrings

They will never play for us.