|
Magpie
Volant sister, I've seen you preen in borrowed feathers, dab
the stain of clay around your twisted
neck. From our common table you prise the kills you gorge
in secret. Your bower: full of cheap, filched jewels, their gaudy
glint, their lewd winks. Below that thorny bed
sift piles of what you neither share nor use. Young
might have fledged. Instead:
their corpses, caught, scrawl
the raw record of your maternity.
You thought to lure a mate. But selective pressures press
the males away from your brief
cloacal embrace. They share
their seed yet find your fitness doubtful. The scent that wafts across
your shoulder blades: Beware. You leave
your hoard of stuff to try
the branches of the others. Your eye that does not flinch stares
fear into each neighbor. You think your look
is friendly. But you're starved.
|
|
