Breath, by Maren Mitchell
Since storms and fear affect us each alike,
no count of limbs can measure depth of pain.
With two or four or feathers, hearts maintain
the same innate, intense desire to spike
all hours of need and hope, also the right
to loll in light and warmth—not live in vain.
Could we, confirmed as carnivores, still sane,
decide to change, not kill to eat, but hike
the trail of true equality, yet not
fall prey to further motives to dispatch—
stretch fields for food, obliterate, not learn,
for power and wealth, possession, down with shot?
And would the war against our mortal hatch,
the killing just for killing’s sake, still burn?