CP Nwankwo
Animal Eschatology
when the dog dies, silence drifts like a reed
basket down the stream; grief returns like a bark
swallowed by shaped stones. they say there’s a
domestic city where the spirit of beasts gathers
beneath green’s shade to account for memory.
say they remember every touch, every wound
they’ve stirred into exit. the hawk will parade
its talons as penance. its beak confessing
a debt it can’t repay. what cruelty has done
rarely earns mercy. the snake is the first
to deny venom, and clothe itself in angelic
robes. the squirrel is a leaping hunger.
he never denies the gift of his incisors—
tomatoes, pumpkins, and grains. the cat curls
in the lap of a ghost child it once clawed.
let’s be fair: no one is punished here.
let the predator & prey name the offspring
of their offenses. what hunger demands blood
in these adamic fields? we say in grief:
judge yourselves even as you pretend
you have no soul. it is a new phase, now
that you’re dead. the goat bears the thorns
of every fence it defied. not to suffer, but to flaunt
its stubbornness. this is a new constellation:
what follows, after breath leaves the bone,
is a memory, too,
…………………….too young to promise return.
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CP Nwankwo (he/him), SWAN IV, identifies as an apprentice poet. He writes from Port Harcourt, Nigeria. He was recently shortlisted for the Alpine Fellowship Prize for Poetry, 2025; a BotN-nominee whose work is published/forthcoming in Frontier Poetry, Palette Poetry, Mizna, Magma, Heartlines Spec, Strange Horizons, Reckoning, Consequence Forum, Lucky Jefferson, Rough Cut, Another Chicago Magazine, Big Score Lit, Poetry ColumnNND, and elsewhere. He tweets @ CP Nwankwo.
Author’s Comments/Backstory: This poem arises from a mindful and playful awareness of suffering, a strange pleasure found in the havoc caused by an unlikely creature, the squirrel. Minute as its size may be, it overrides all mercy, ravaging my snake tomatoes (tomato agwọ) and the vegetable farms of my neighbors. Overseeing a large farm confronts me daily with the undeserving hungers of animals and pests. I see what they do to humankind, and I begin to wonder what eternal judgement awaits them. Are they not meant to account for their sins, even if they possess no soul? Perhaps I write as a premeditative sufferer, for myself and for all who work the land, cheaply devoured by these devout little humans.
Editor’s Notes: Abstract image for mood (photo by ilgmyzin on Unsplash)