Each year the buzzards come back to feed,
To eat roadkill, dogs and opossums.
They stretch the intestines on the grass
And crowd in close looking for answers
In roadkill, dogs and opossums.
By noon, the flesh is speckled with maggots
Crowded in close, looking for answers
On wet fur clotted by midday sun.
By noon, the flesh is speckled with maggots,
A kind of resurrection we don’t imagine,
The fur, wet, clotted by midday sun—
Buzzards are oblivious to disgust.
Here’s the resurrection we don’t imagine:
Bodies drained of mineral, soil, and seed.
But buzzards are oblivious to disgust.
They digest whatever’s given by the road.
Bodies bleed mineral, soil, and seed,
Food for buzzards hungry in autumn,
Who digest whatever’s given by the road,
Eye sockets empty, bellies dried black.
Praise those creatures hungry in autumn,
Who stretch intestines on the grass,
Peck eye sockets empty, bellies dried black—
Praise these buzzards come back to feed.
Published in Sheila-Na-Gig., A poetry journal & small press, The Poets: Volume 10.2, Winter 2025
