We All Bear the Mark

The mark of Cain is hard to spot
these days, what with the hairstyles
and hat brims, and mirrors in most houses
don’t see more than skin-deep, or maybe
we get so used to faces we don’t inspect
them any more. I walk through the meadow
where a shrike hangs a mouse on a thorn tree,
a snake steals meadowlark’s eggs, a hawk
rides off with a baby rabbit, blackbirds
across the fence find worms in the plowed
ground, even a spider on a fence post
grabs a fly—nobody makes any bones about
survival, and downs his prey unmoved by
headlines, so the meadow basks in the
peace of true hunger. Even the President,
they say, pulls down his nightcap when
he prays.