Prose Poem by Vail Finn
“The Animals from Home”
By Vail Finn
Houses burned, they became a pilgrim people. Summer fires blurred the air they breathed. Lit the hay and the scorched vine. Water from the pond, hard dark blue, receded and stinking. Sweating frogs jump as you pass. They wear vagabond clothing, dried sweat. As comfortable as they look. Hair shaggy and fallen how it dried. Clearing dry throats. Boats of sinewy tree bark bound, young, spindly, sustenance but not plenty.
This is not the land that raised their blood. Survival here is circumstantial, technical, and only possible. Colors of sunburn blend with towering rocks they named for trees, ones they have not seen since they can remember. Nights exposed. This is no prairie, no meadow, nor is it a field. This is a bowl under a screaming flame. Dry, bloodless, flat, black devil creatures roam by day and creep by night for salty glistening spots in the cracked ground.
Man is burden bearing beast now. Belongings upon backs. Each home animal, familiar in their brays, line-pressed stomachs, their flesh a final comfort for those that so like fathers raised them with milk and grain and roof. Slaughter was farewell to a friend. Victim to the future. Out of place those noble beasts here. Admirably marching through territory beyond their reckoning. All gone and yet stomachs rumble then quake. Now do they regret the unassuming companionship of their natal soil. The ones they toiled and prided over, fed, led, housed, and yes, loved.
They were sorry in the consummation of that fate. It was not done eagerly. And once they did it, appetite hid itself away, too ashamed to sate or satisfy itself. This was not the validation it longed for. And stomachs growled only shortly after the teary silent feast. Meager meal to the beast that supplied it. The footsteps and brays, whinnies, calls, and cries haunted the played-at thing they did instead of sleep that night. “Regret,” sang in whisper trio, the laces that shaking deft fingers strong knots untied and let fall with dusty cloud.
Not right, the desperate clarity. What questions came, voiced by the freed spirit of home harvests, seasons, and rain. They ached for fruit and bread, settled for stale, smells, and salt. Or what water at once when available could alleviate. But their stomachs sang. Not for more. For less. For something else. Their stomachs protested, as kindly their arms and legs felt fed, and proceeded much in the way their friends had. But their stomachs ached for food soon after. Too soon, they knew, to justify what they’d done. Too soon their stomachs called for blood. Shame corrupted their minds but could not fool their bowels, that hungered soon after the pilgrims swore they’d never eat again. A steaming tear dried across their faces. It was not rightly done. Their stomachs growled too soon after. They slaughtered the animals from home. They ate them for three days. But their stomachs were hungry only shortly after.
- Vail Finn is an editorial assistant and former teacher of middle and high school Spanish living in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Vail is the author of In Ithan, a cozy fantasy book about friendship, peace, acceptance, and the beauty of a simple life. You can find In Ithan on Amazon and the audiobook for free on YouTube @allwhocomeinpeace. Vail enjoys travel and spending time with family and friends.
By Vail Finn
Houses burned, they became a pilgrim people. Summer fires blurred the air they breathed. Lit the hay and the scorched vine. Water from the pond, hard dark blue, receded and stinking. Sweating frogs jump as you pass. They wear vagabond clothing, dried sweat. As comfortable as they look. Hair shaggy and fallen how it dried. Clearing dry throats. Boats of sinewy tree bark bound, young, spindly, sustenance but not plenty.
This is not the land that raised their blood. Survival here is circumstantial, technical, and only possible. Colors of sunburn blend with towering rocks they named for trees, ones they have not seen since they can remember. Nights exposed. This is no prairie, no meadow, nor is it a field. This is a bowl under a screaming flame. Dry, bloodless, flat, black devil creatures roam by day and creep by night for salty glistening spots in the cracked ground.
Man is burden bearing beast now. Belongings upon backs. Each home animal, familiar in their brays, line-pressed stomachs, their flesh a final comfort for those that so like fathers raised them with milk and grain and roof. Slaughter was farewell to a friend. Victim to the future. Out of place those noble beasts here. Admirably marching through territory beyond their reckoning. All gone and yet stomachs rumble then quake. Now do they regret the unassuming companionship of their natal soil. The ones they toiled and prided over, fed, led, housed, and yes, loved.
They were sorry in the consummation of that fate. It was not done eagerly. And once they did it, appetite hid itself away, too ashamed to sate or satisfy itself. This was not the validation it longed for. And stomachs growled only shortly after the teary silent feast. Meager meal to the beast that supplied it. The footsteps and brays, whinnies, calls, and cries haunted the played-at thing they did instead of sleep that night. “Regret,” sang in whisper trio, the laces that shaking deft fingers strong knots untied and let fall with dusty cloud.
Not right, the desperate clarity. What questions came, voiced by the freed spirit of home harvests, seasons, and rain. They ached for fruit and bread, settled for stale, smells, and salt. Or what water at once when available could alleviate. But their stomachs sang. Not for more. For less. For something else. Their stomachs protested, as kindly their arms and legs felt fed, and proceeded much in the way their friends had. But their stomachs ached for food soon after. Too soon, they knew, to justify what they’d done. Too soon their stomachs called for blood. Shame corrupted their minds but could not fool their bowels, that hungered soon after the pilgrims swore they’d never eat again. A steaming tear dried across their faces. It was not rightly done. Their stomachs growled too soon after. They slaughtered the animals from home. They ate them for three days. But their stomachs were hungry only shortly after.
- Vail Finn is an editorial assistant and former teacher of middle and high school Spanish living in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. Vail is the author of In Ithan, a cozy fantasy book about friendship, peace, acceptance, and the beauty of a simple life. You can find In Ithan on Amazon and the audiobook for free on YouTube @allwhocomeinpeace. Vail enjoys travel and spending time with family and friends.
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