For the sake of living longer, we should not 

eat this. The bottomless pan of mac and cheese

stringing itself from itself to the porcelain plate

as the television drones and the men

with glasses like mine—the frames that make us look

smarter than what we are—talk about Florida, its shores,

its hurricanes, prisons and poisons, before All that killing, 

killing, killing, for the sake of killing, my mother says as we split

the tender meat falling from the bone of the bird buried

in barbecue. To sleep peacefully, I’ve made a habit of watching

videos of greyhounds hunting plastic eggs for the treats inside. 

Always another animal wants to feed on our insides, to lick the walls

of our throats. The buffalo with its head bowed ready to blunt 

the horse carrying empire. The steel spread around the grip 

of sculpted walnut encased in glass. At the Met, we view this art,

The Art of London Firearms, the beauty of European gunmaking

packaged and brilliant because it is a violence not meant for us

to succumb to. At our American table, eating cheese, imported from Rome, 

cured pieces of pancetta, imported from Rome, and wine,

      from the fridge,

I remember reading that if it was possible to domesticate the zebras,

     it would be

over for them. All the force we claim as talent would be used

     to keep the imported

zebra-horse hybrids hostage and galloping on the grasslands

     of Gainesville

or near the swamps of the Everglades. All their mothers braying

      from lack, 

back home in Africa. But, what do you know about being tamed? 

Each of us now in our petless-zebra world are wondering when

     the next

body will fall and how long it will take the men whose tongues rise

     and bow

like the heads of buffalo to blame the violence not meant for them

     on something

that is not the barrel, not the bullet, walnut, rosewood, platinum, or           plastic carving

death in our insides. No, we want the smoke, just like the gazelle

     and the little man

on his yellow chariot eyeing her body for burial. We are so barbaric we       are human,

everyday pretending we don’t know surviving requires us to hurt someone.

This poem is the winner of the 2023 Stanley Kunitz Memorial Prize.