Friday, June 12, 2009


The buzzards spin a thick, feathered cauldron above the placenta paradise
“Follow the birds,” an old leper instructs as microbes continue to gnaw
They venture out to the desert to dispose and express
Listen …
Make the trek through sidewinder epigraphs
While the aborted let out a surfactant-rich scream
Drape mother in your arms and let her suckle at
The last of your precious water
Leave what’s left of the child behind for the buzzards
Because for them … the oasis is not a mirage