In my chest, a great big whirlpool. In my head,
a catalog of every living thing
and its concomitant worth. The only drug worth doing
is a punch to the jaw by a friend
you’ve rightfully screwed. Animals are meant to be eaten
and we are nothing but animals.
The sooner you realize the touch of my hand is a balm,
the more life will enjoy you. O babe
in the woods, it’s not the wolves you need fear,
but the hunter. Your heartbeat
is ripe for tuning. We have our parts in this orchestral world,
and we must bury ourselves in them.
—Andrew Kozma’s poems have appeared in Blackbird, Redactions, and Best American Poetry 2015. His book of poems, City of Regret (Zone 3 Press, 2007), won the Zone 3 First Book Award. He lives and writes and teaches in Houston, Texas, probably in that order.