Submitted by Emily Hoover | email@example.com
The following is a poem submitted to the Creative Section by Emily Hoover. The Gargoyle is currently accepting submissions of creative works including creative writing, fine art, graphic illustrations, multimedia and photography.
O Little Armored One The early morning breeze hums, gently, as my boots glide from the shoulder of the road to the sight of new death. Pink, porcelain piles of flesh meet the gray, broken asphalt of a deserted, cold highway far from your home. The Aztecs called you turtle-rabbit. The Spanish called you armadillo. You are indistinguishable, now, O Little Armored One. Yet I can distinguish your species, for they call you Nine-Banded. You dominated this soil. I recoil from the sight. I grab the shovel, which sat in my county truck. Yet, I pause because I know you. We are one in the same. I too dig and grub for food to feed my emaciated imagination. I too do not possess sight, but have large eyes. O Little Armored One, I too have armor to protect from insecurities. I too use armor to shield myself from regrets. The shovel falls from my hands as the flies feed on fragments of your flesh.I cannot see your armor; it has failed. But still you take risks. Blind, you yearn for night. You birthed four identical babies, but still you hunt alone. I imagine you treading water, your armor as weights. I imagine your teeth, feeding on small invertebrates. A prehistoric creature, adapting to a modern world. We have dissimilar features, But I too hunt alone. I investigate my own guarded boundaries as this highway separates me from the world. I scrape you from the earth, leaving blood on the ground. I too wish to cross roads. I too seek food in greener pastures. I too jump, surprised at the sight of headlights. I too have thought myself indestructible. Resilient Mamalia,I envy your strength. The sunlight illuminates.