I said I was a pacifist.
I wouldn't kill a flea.
All living things are sanctified--
at least as much as me.
But ants kept running underneath
my shoes, to my regret.
Mom gave me pin-worm medicine,
and gnats drowned in my sweat.
Mosquitoes landed on my neck.
I slapped before I thought.
And when I saw my bloody palm
I wasn't overwrought.
My baseball glove is made of skin
stripped from a cow, and dried,
and the chicken in my chicken pie
is not a suicide.
"Though I love baseball and meat pie,
These deaths are not my fault,"
I said. Then, hell, I went outside,
and covered snails with salt.
--from The Antioch Review, 61:3, Summer 2003
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