Milkweed Hand Grenade
Every hair and feather, every blade of grass is gone.
Every leaf and every bristle, every whisker, every plume.
The world is shaved, completely bald and smooth.
There will be no more ticklish kisses,
no more soft nests or pillows to rest your weary egg upon.
All the fur has been sheared and swept away,
every bit of fluff, every tuft, every cotton ball and dust bunny
blown into the breeze with one puff.
The planet has been cleared of every silkworm's excretions,
every shard of milkweed shrapnel.
The earth has been slathered with shaving cream
and scraped raw, not a single stump or bit of stubble remaining,
the dirt beneath your feet still tingling with aftershave.