FABLE Poem: The Spiral of Greed, by https://wildsoundwritingfestival.submittable.com/submissions/51792173?page=1&tab=messages#:~:text=Name-,H.L.%20Delaney,-Email

In the time before time, when stories hunted their own endings,
a traveler came from the east—
carrying familiar games with foreign rules.
His smile a trap,
fatted with plenty, yet eyes glimmered with hunger.

In the grass ocean he found Buffalo.
They shared smoke of the kinnickinnk,
offerings rising to Kemush,
then cast the bones.
Buffalo wagered pride,
wagered hide,
wagered all.
“Perhaps one more game? Win them back?” the man said.
Buffalo trusted the guest-host bond,
proud, uncertain.
By dawn he walked home thin—
ribs sharp as winter branches,
his coat stolen away in the dark.

By the mountain fire he met Mother Deer.
They prayed over smoke,
offerings rising to Kemush.
She wagered joy for laughter,
her bright stones, her crown of antlers.
“Another throw, and they are yours again,”
the traveler promised with teeth.
She trusted, believing in kinship’s honor.
By dawn she wandered bare-headed,
the sky pressing cold fingers
where her crown had been,
joy estranged,
laughter stolen.

Within the marsh he came upon C’waam.
They shared smoke, gave offerings,
then set the game between them.
The fish wagered baskets of wocus,
then his shining smile.
“Play once more, and I return it,”
said the man, eyes glinting.

Trust betrayed again,
by dawn his lodge rang with laughter
that had no teeth.
That is why sucker fish has none,
for his voice of joy was stolen,
leaving a silence that gnawed bone-deep at kinship.

Still west he walked,
shadow light, pockets heavy,
until the black wolf came.
Smoke curled from kinnickinnk,
offerings for Kemush.
The bones clicked like teeth in the dark.
The man cheated,
and claimed the wolf’s dark coat.
“Return it in the morning,” the wolf said.
The traveler swore,
but fled at dawn,
shattering the trust of host and guest.

But the coat turned thorn,
every quill hooked into his skin,
burning frost into bone.
He clawed, he bled,
yet it clung like shame.

The wolf shed his mask.
It was I, Kemush.
“Only I wear this as beauty.
On you—it is curse.
What you gathered, you keep—
wounds for winnings,
shame for shadow.
Those who take without respect
end up cursed.”

And so the traveler became Porcupine,
hiding by night,
daylight too sharp on his back.
The wind still remembers his name
but will not speak it aloud.

The animals cried for reparations.
I answered:
“You will know this lesson until time ends—
do not gamble what you cannot afford to lose.
Greed is its own spiral.
Those who resist, remember.”