Now and Then

Now, as we converse, our words are no longer
just sounds flying across the room, but rather
muscadine-colored falcons plunging
with their claws out towards flesh.

Others are hand grenades packed
with the explosive power of resentment
meant to release their force upon hitting
eardrums just before comprehension sets in.

Some are daisy darts, dipped in pain
the other must have caused, now a toxin
blown by lips tightly puckered
around sad mouths.

Most are just pellets, easily and cheaply made
on the spur of the moment firing in sync
with angry neurons turning over the rocks
of our darker landscapes.

How harmless were the first words
released from still-forming memories,
when our quivers were flower baskets,
and familiarity had not yet decayed to contempt.