On Cruelty, On Compassion

On Cruelty, On Compassion

For human nature is such that sorrows

and sufferings simultaneously endured

do not add up to a whole in our consciousness

but hide, the lesser behind the greater,

according to a definite law of perspective.

                                                                                Primo Levi

                                                                                If This is Man

Like predator and prey they are made

to be aware of each other at all costs:

the claws of the hawk order the spine

of the rabbit to sit rigid before

there’s an override and a bolt or no

not this time and it’s all up in the air

the first time ever it had left the ground.

Because leaping doesn’t count and any-

way that was for joy once though who

could say what brought it about.

I mean to say that cruelty and compassion

are sculpted from the same mud

though I can tell already the hawk

and his living his terrible instincts (but

only to the rabbits) the mouse isn’t

going to work as a comparison here

because really its just living a life

and the world spins the way the world

spins—but still there’s cruelty to be

endured and there’s the maker of it

and the one it’s made for.  Something

simpler I suppose: a boy goes

out to feed his dog and the awful chain

is caught on the ragged edges of a tree

stump and she’s up to her neck in it

and he watches her eye him and wait

for him to take it into his hand and make it

easier for her to gain the length

of it to the house and a little more maybe

to curl into the damp moldy hay.  She’s

had to shit close to where she’s strayed,

the chain is linked and kinked and it’s

winter and he’s out with no coat or gloves

and he sees it all and dumps the dry

food into the tipped over lip of the bowl

and swears, nearly slipping and reaches

for her and she hunches down, licking

her nose that’s cracked and bloody,

licking her teeth that are rotting and falling

out, and when he’s close, licking his

hand his cold, cold almost blue hand

and it’s a warm tongue, the warmest

thing ever, and she and whimpers she’s

twisting and he pulls, pulls sharp, stupid

dog, you got yourself wrapped there

you get yourself out and walks off,

the food kicked away now and too far

anyway, the light from the door turned

off.  And the sky goes out altogether

for both of them.  Don’t you want a hawk

here, to come circling, and a rabbit, too,

waiting, warm and giving in her blood?