writing
It troubles me
that you do not see,
what we all do.
It troubles me
that you cannot be,
where we all are.
It must trouble you
that for all of life,
til now,
human teeth were
strong and straight.
Without adding F-.
Free of decay.
It must be a discomfort,
your brains shrinking and
bones becoming brittle.
The ancestors moan at
the pause in your faces.
I am a goat size wolf,
Pakicetus, who decided
and became a whale.
I lost a hip for that.
A healthy one.
Still am.
You, poor dears,
are losing your gnaw
and lungs and sight.
I don't know what for.
Where you'll be a
million years from me.
I imagine you will need
some of what you've lost.
With each missed breath,
to blood, to bone.
Way things look, soon,
you'll be joining me.
Where deeply, Love,
you will need those things.
To truely sing
https://www.amnh.org/explore/news-blogs/on-exhibit-posts/the-first-whale-pakicetus