Cycle by Milan Smith
I led him, Roland, to the forest to a clearing
where I killed him.
With one thrust he died and fell into the
grass and fed it with his blood.
I walked close to stare upon his dead eyes
and bloody chest, and
as I turned his jaws parted,
and I thought he wished to speak.
But from between his lips a branch shoved forth, and it grew tall and thick and
as the branch grew the jaw
opened wider until it cracked and shattered.
I saw the branch was now a trunk and
from the trunk spread roots
and the roots thrust from his chest and
covered his ribs and limbs like snakes.
Branches stretched from the trunk above
and sprouted leaves dark and waxy
and yellow blossoms flowered and their
sweet scent of oranges burst upon the air.
Still the tree grew and thrust high above
until the sun itself was blotted from my sight
and then the tree grew still.
the bark and blood spilled forth
from the wound and I stuck my finger
within it and it was soft — soft!
I sucked on the blood and sucked
life from the tree and laughed with salty-blood lips,
for I had not killed, there is no death,
only the cycle, the cycle
of life to death to life. How do
you murder what is life for the next cycle?
“Roland!” I said, “you live.”
And again I sucked the blood.
“Come all!” I shouted, “Feed on Roland!
Ashes to ashes,
blood to blood,
life to life!”
A deer, a bear, a hawk,
and they suckled upon the fountain
that flowed freely red and thick.
And I cut the deer,
I cut its throat, and from it
bloody frogs and fish and a dog
spilled upon the ground. And the
and the frogs hopped,
and the fish flopped in the bloody mud
at the foot of the tree.
The bear then ate of the fish,
the hawk then ate of the frogs,
and the dog became as my brother.
“Roland,” I said to the dog,
“you are still my brother.”
And so he was.
© 2009, Metazen.