Parable

Let us not with one stone kill one bird, 
much less two. Let us never put a cat 
in a bag nor skin them, regardless 
of how many ways there are to do so. 
And let us never take the bull, especially 
by his gorgeous horns. What I mean is 

we could watch our tongues or keep 
silent. What I mean is we could scrub 
the violence from our speech. And if we find
truth in a horse’s mouth, let us bless her

ground-down molars, no matter how 
old she is, especially if she was given 
as a gift. Again, let’s open her mouth——that of the horse, 
I mean——let us touch that interdental space where 
no teeth grow, where the cold bit was made to grip. 
Touch her there, gently now, touch that gentle 

empty between her incisors and molars, rub her 
aching, vulnerable gums. Don’t worry: doing so calms her. 
Besides, she’s old now; she’s what we call 
broken; she won’t bite. She’s lived through 
two thirteen-year emergences of cicadas

and thought their rising a god infestation, 
thought each insect roiling up an iteration 
of the many names of god, because god to her is 
the grasses so what comes up from grass is
god. She would not say it that way. Nor would she

say the word cicada——words are hindrances 
to what can be spoken through the body, are 
what she tolerates when straddled, 
giddy-up on one side then whoa on the other. After, 
it’s all good girl, Mable, good girl, 
before the saddle sweat is rinsed cool 
with water from the hose and a carrot is offered 
flat from the palm. Yes, words being 

generally useless she listens instead 
to the confused rooster stuttering when the sun
burns overhead, when it’s warm enough
for those time-keepers to tunnel up from the 
dark and fill their wings to make them 
stiff and capable of flight. To her, it is the sound 

of winter-coming in her mane 
or the sound of winter-leaving in her mane——
yes, that sound——a liquid shushing 
like the blood-fill of stallion desire she knew once 
but crisper, a dry crinkle of fall 
leaves. Yes, that sound, as they fill their new wings 
then lumber to the canopy to demand
come here, come here, come 
here, now come. 

If this is a parable you don’t understand, 
then, dear human, stop listening for words. 
Listen instead for mane, wind, wings, 
wind, mane, wings, wings, wings. 
The lesson here is of the mare 
and of the insects, even of the rooster 
puffed and strutting past. Because now, 
now there is only one thing worth hearing, 
and it is the plea of every living being in that field 
we call ours, is the two-word commandment 
trilling from the trees: let live, let live, let live. 
Can you hear it? Please, they say. Please.
Let us live.  

Subscribe to the Poem-a-Day Podcast 

  

About the Treehouse Climate Action Poem Prize

“How does tired language reclaim its potency? Do we want to kill any birds with any stones? Put any cat in any bag? ‘Parable’ beautifully and playfully engages the dislocation of a swiftly changing world——and also the potential for discovering the hidden truths and connections that are hiding there all along. As climate change nudges the world into uncharted territory, familiar things will start to lose their old meanings and acquire new ones. The shift from the horse’s gifted mouth to the magic of cicadas rising, the question of what it means for a horse to twice witness a thirteen-year emergence, is a wonder. ‘Parable’ ends with the perfect exhortation for these times: ‘the plea of every living being in that field / we call ours, is the two-word commandment / trilling from the trees: let live, let live, let live.’”
——Elizabeth Bradfield and Kate Marvel

“‘Parable’ celebrates the cicada—to me, a totem of survival and resurrection, a peaceful being that does little harm to trees or any animal, including us. They are relics of the ancient world that once sang to dinosaurs, and then—five million years before humans evolved—to horses. Their rising is a measure of Earth’s deep time, and in the spring of 2024, more broods are expected to emerge simultaneously since 1803. Recently, scientists have noted that their time-immemorial cycles have been scrambled by the climate crisis. It’s my hope that we understand their rising not as an invasion but as a blessing, that they might sing their same song when the next simultaneous emergence is due to happen 221 years from now.”
—Nickole Brown