Whistleblower- A Poem

Whistleblower
Karl Marcus

Up the gully past the end of a dead end road

in my mind a hound goes on alone in hills

like sounding boards, resolute and compelled

to tell what he knows is true.  Who strains

to hear his muffled oath is of no concern.

Though a little wind will carry his voice away

a little while, he will stay nose-to-ground

and sounding from inside the deep tangle

consensus has become.  Once

 

I went out with a huntsman's horn to warn him off

and call.  I learned he will not come to me, bleeding

and happy to be carried home.  Bitch or dog,

the dogged can't resist corrupting musk.  A whiff

informs the dna, inflames the nostrils;  the voice

explodes, an acoustic rainbow over sodden hills.

There is no spent fuel pool.  The tsunami, man-made.

I squint into a slurring wind.  I hear the soft scrape

of running paws in rotting leaves and know

this running in my bones.  It's in the blood.

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