what you have left

is all birds, in the end

 

it’s throwing the birds with ham fist

 

throwing then

shooting 

 

feather explosion shimmering frisson 

 

of blue red black tawny feathers

 

& tiniest bones look look look 

 

bird bones they’re not like my bones

 

even a little bit or the bones of anyone i know so

fragile so delicate you knit

 

with them tiny needles you pierce

 

your daughter’s ears, if you had a daughter

 

but what you have is a handful of birds

and your heart the rifle

 

your tongue licks the ground like a plate

 

taste all the feathers

and bloody clay