Inside my mind are countless flowers,
a trowel and soil in the wheelbarrow.
There’s a maze in front of me, a maze
of holes reaching to the darkness of souls.
A toddler was here, a farmer there.
A sunflower meadow, a field of wheat
burned and bulldozed. So many tactics
to fend off forces, so many strategies
to deplete innocents of subsistence.
The pressure triggers, the tripwires
sometimes even an alluring trove
of leftovers, or perhaps a shiny toy.
Experts say animals in Africa—
large and small—cower at the sound
of a human voice, that in its presence,
even the roar of a lion or tiger doesn’t
elicit the same fearful response.

Richard L. Matta is originally from New York’s rustic Hudson Valley. His work appears in Glint, Slipstream, Hole in the Head Review, Healing Muse, and elsewhere. He poetry was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2023. He currently resides in San Diego, California.