18: Village

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Village
by James Doyle

The mountain breaks us into tiny stick
figures. It takes away the very air
we breathe. It shrouds our windows
and plays black dice with our children.

We live in a cage of nagging trees.
The food we eat only comes in scraps.
Fruit rinds harden beneath our feet.
The beds we sleep in are rusted leaves.

The sun is too hard for planting.
It cuts our fields and skin to tatters.
Our goats are like walking bones.
We survive on the edge of gristle.

When we make love, we say only
that the sky wears a faded eye patch
over its light. When we dream,
we smother in heat our leaking skins.

Our smallest building is the church.
It is large enough to hold our god.
If he lives here, he can give us
nothing we ever need but endings.