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Vulture
Against the orange sky
she sits waiting
for the smell of carrion.
The casual observer
may be fooled into thinking
she is sunning herself.
Though warm blooded, hearted
her eyes like black ice belie
her love of death.
For it is only with death’s help
she can live.
Consuming whatever she finds,
she does not discriminate
between roadkill
and a naturally occurring
more beautiful demise.
Legendary symbol of catastrophe
she feeds on others’ misfortune.
With anticipation
she craves the inevitable
like an addict craving a fix.
For her death is life.
I love to watch her
darkness
moving in circles.
As her talons reach
for a piece of flesh,
I imagine her feathers
brushing over my chest
thrilling at every gouge
her beak makes in
what once was
my heart.
Photograph by Gerald Levinson, 2010 |
