Snake plants creep from afar
to soak up toxins for chicks.
They know the essential toys
for raising a wholesome chick
and that the simplicity of clean air
explains the world’s nudity.
They belong to a history of dying
to immortalize the good.
A mother waddles toward them,
a carton of kids in her arms.
“Bring them to demolitions, to futures. Please.”
She turns, choosing a vanishing shade.
A chick stoops to pore over the kids.
The Golden Bell clangs. V
“Stop drawing incorrect words out through your teeth.”
“Your farm’s radioactive fruits will be confiscated.”
One of the farmers laughs at his own words, “Disintegrate, or be disappeared!” The tiniest chick eases to the front line, unarmed and arms widely open. Ten thousand more leap in, surging into one mammoth chick. The farmers charge with butcher knives. Its neck still stretches all the way heavenward, above the canopies, the stars, the farmers stabbing from below. Its roar reaches the farthest prisoner dormant in the world.