Song of the Feral Child: Cassandra Kulay

You call to me, there is something
crucial in my not noticing you reaching
To pet me, what you think will help
Doesn’t, don’t help me. If I die,
Dark or shuddering, exultant or pitiful,
That death is mine and nothing owns
my soul. You offer the impoverished
Something that has too high a price,
Wanting to mold me out of shape,
To blunt what is ancient in me and
Hungering. Go ahead, I can’t stop you.
Inscribe the window with your view
But the cold dance of the stars, the
Killing celestial spheres, the music
Of words, sounds, impressions, run
Down my face as tears, vicious
Circle, end to end
revolution of current.
You call dumb in self-defense
What you refuse to hear.