Morning breaks upon Babel, crows caw, stirring from perches,
corvid-colloquialisms, complaints, single-voiced, to-all-alerting,
this, the gaping dearth, morsels missing, hungry bird, listening
to whispering passersby, ignoring their beaky-hissing, pinching
occasional ankles or errant fingers, angrily issuing edible edicts,
to hapless builders, millers, stonemasons, and/or tired children.
The tower grew quickly, block-by-block, toward God’s throne,
his pageant, his garden, his greed, his full larder, toward hope
at uplifting man, toward peace, through power, on earth, pride,
as hubris, “Made in His image. Owed the same richness of life.”
God stared askance, he’d not yet let loose, with a raised hand
to cast Zeus’ stolen bolt, upon the heads of newly-minted Man.
…and the crows cawed again, louder still, hissing, “Feed me!”
to the miners and coopers, to measurers, markers, and kings,
such a simple thing, cast corn, wheat, a bug, or mousy meat,
to the cobbles, so ravens, crows, magpies, or blue jays, even,
may eat their feast. Rising, full belly, alight atop Babel’s peak?
“No! We are all hungry, unforgiving, indignant, angry… please?”
Then God, having eaten the elder deities, churned Enki, Tiamat,
churned Nippur and Ninlil, churned Zoroaster and Ahura Mazda,
turned Loki and Freyja, stirred Thor and Hela, and called to mind
an All-Father, all in the span of one breath’s worth, and, resigned,
gave audience to his visage, bearded, raging, one-eyed, ancient,
Odin, hand on hip, replied, “Hugin and Munin see the evil of Men!”
Cacophony! The Multi-Voiced God raged in billion-part harmony,
“Hubris! Greed! How DARE they?! Minions, mortals, each devious
and so cunning, think themselves worth eternal prizes? Treasures!
In these many ages, I. Have. Never. seen such self-entitled surety.”
Quote: a god that demanded human sacrifice. Nose raised, smug,
the Multitude judged, juried, and convicted. The penalty: BLOOD.
These crows, surprised, fly, retreating to the parapets… Waiting…
Thunder, anger, and earth-shaking quakes, storms, and waves raged
into the builders of Babel and broke blocks, etchings, and minarets
into gravel and stones for paving, the Tower collapsed, plume, jet,
billowed into God’s foyer. Peter held his breath. The Angels’ side-
eyes inquired, “A little much? Wow. Ok. What’s up with these Guys?”
The crows each sighed, prying feather-tips or freeing tail-feathers
from beneath stones, bodies, odd books, regrets, and unpleasant
scents of gods, death, surprise, and whatever was in the cook pot.
Looking to Heaven, they beheld Many-Faces-as-One as he nodded,
rolling their eyes, reminded, “Hugin and Munin see the evil of Men!”
The context was missing. Translation insufficient: Cawing, by Odin.
“Hugin and Munin see No Difference.” Corrected. Amended. Sent.
Gods made Men and Men make Gods. A finger, upward, pointing,
jealously, downward, rend the Mortal Makers into fluttering strips,
like pennants upon their own lances. No. Dead Men can’t invent
their own Fathers, but they sure as Hell can invent their own end.
Hugin and Munin bowed their sad heads, like their earthly friends.
In mortal matters, concerned with mundanities, chores, preening,
bathing, and corvid-errands, only crows share the same meaning.
Immortal, it matters. Because Gods died, as Mortals, shortly after.
Men’s death-rattles, in infinite variety, tambour and tone, matched
the Multitude, the Many-Faces. Made fully in each Other’s images,
both pushed through the Mirror, cracked, shredded, entirely dead.
“Finally!” say Crows, Earthly or Heaven-sent, “Let the Feast begin!”
© CG Tenpenny, 2024. A list poem exercise for creative writing class.