* * *
Song of the Vultures
Let’s give praise to the creatures that have
lived here aaaaaaaaAll a broken clay
aaaaaaaleft muddied in the stomach
aaaaaThe heartbeat of the opossum found
burrowed in the soilaaaaaaaaaaFound
bloodied and grinningaaaaaaaaFound still
breathingaaaaaAnd what man cannot say
they have made animal of that grin
aaaaaaaaaWho among us is not known for
ripping the lungs from its cage
aaaaaaaI ordered the hen whole to feel it’s
bones crush between my fingers
aaaaaaAnd isn’t that how love is made
aaaaaaRotisseriedaaaawithoutaaaaenough
seasonings to make it worth it
aaaaaaAnd yet we eat/and eat/and eat/and
eataaaaaaaaaaaaaaUntil it is gone Untila it
is a blank plateaaaaaaaaaaaAre we not just
a volt of vulturesaaaaaaaaaaaStarving for a
heart we can call our ownaaaIf only for the
feast
* * *
Learning to write a poem
Birds fly around the mouth searching for
ways to become part of the body
I am eleven when I figure out I am a bird
Up until this point, my father has always
called me chicken legs
and I think it a joke
But today, I find a feather hiding underneath
my covers
So I must be a bird
As any good bird would do
I go the backyard and wonder why I’ve lived
in Michigan for ten winters
But also, I decide I must learn to fly
It’s simple really
I saw a boy sprout wings on my television
just a few weeks ago
The cops just let out all of his blood and he
started to float
Maybe if I just let a little of me out, I can
unlearn gravity too
But birds fly so beautifully
And nothing really leaves their body as they
leave the earth
So instead I flap my arms gracefully to
produce nothing but sweat
In a movie, I saw a mother bird throw her
young out of the nest when it was time for
them to soar
My mother would never throw me out of a
tree
But maybe she doesn’t know I am a bird
So I climb to the top of the pine tree in my
backyard
Jump and flap way more vigorously
And wouldn’t you know it
I start to fall
Give in to my fate
Ready to be the dead bird mangled
left under a tree for a stray cat to feast on
Amazingly I don’t break anything
Ten percent of baby birds die at this stage
Thinking they want to go but not being
ready to leave
Maybe I’m too young to fly
The boy on the tv was at least seventeen
and he was too young to fly too
At least alone
Or maybe my father was right
I’m just a chicken not born to leave
* * *
Jason B. Crawford is black, bi-poly-queer, and a damn force of nature. In addition to being published in online literary magazines, such as High Shelf Press, Wellington Street Review, Poached Hare, The Amistad, Royal Rose, and Kissing Dynamite, he is the Chief Editor for The Knight’s Library. His chapbook collection Summertime Fine as a Short List selection for Nightingale & Gale. Jason is also the recurring host poet for Ann Arbor Pride..
Website: JasonBCrawford.com
Instagram: jasonbcrawford
Twitter handle: @jasonbcrawford
featured photo by Jamie Lynn
