Powerplay of Pity

Let's workshop this bitch!

Powerplay of Pity 

Those two unhuman fifths of him had taken over 
and he tore the white infant away from the breast
of his own cattle-category mom, tearing its arm off
and punting the shrieks into the hanging-tree. Her
he wanted to hurt. What other power did he have
but to ruin their future, punish her—the only one 
who cared, the only one he had power over; her
for serving as a mirror to his own paucity of power,
for being powerless to mother all better a situation—
out of their hands but—into which she birthed him?

The pack of dogs finally overtook him, snapping 
at his burning calves. Wading into the icy creek
he hoped would get them off, as if they were bees.
Yet they snapped at his arms even as they choked,
their shared owner not too far behind. He turned
and focused on one of the five, grabbing its snout—
thumbs dug into the roof of its mouth. Thrashing
its head to avoid being drowned, he drew that head
to his own mouth and bit off its whiskery cheek
as the rest let primal sense guide them to his neck. 

*This poem is unpublished

Painting: The Cotton Pickers, by Winslow Homer (1876)