We are predators at heart. Sensing weakness

puts us on edge and seeing it makes us salivate.

We want to strike, to kill. But it comes out like 
healthy pushing. When White Not-Grandpa

recovered from his surgery, I’d walk with him

and White Grandma. In his survival-shock depression, 
he’d want to quit and tried turning around and going home

every few steps. White Grandma would hold his walker

and use his debt to push him: “I’ll leave here,” she said. 
“I’ll turn my back on all we made,” she said. “I’ll have nothing.

You promised I wouldn’t end up like that.” And he’d start moving.

She said the same thing to get him on the walk in the first place
and again to eat dinner, each time, finding new ways to phrase

his fear. In another context, the same move: try going to school

or moving to a new city, or changing careers, and we’ll find why 
you want more and say you don’t deserve it. We’ll list your faults

and failures, list ours, heap on enough weight till you break,

like us. Our mouths say it’s support,
but with their eyes always forward and focused

not wide and searching

our blood says you’re prey.