JOHNMICHAEL SIMON POETRY

She squats, regards the soil beneath her knees

her pubic nest sparse now between the trees

recalling how her fledglings perched and fed

so bald and empty ringed around her head

 

Now where the king’s prey is their home

their feasts all carrion beside the throne

and when their mother grieves them they care not

old flesh is best when left to rot

 

And she and she and she and you and I

are left in hospices to rot and die

all skin and thinness, intravenous dreams

of flapping, scraping, feeding time and screams