March Hawks
Looking back on a tumultuous
year
pockmarked by fevered madmen
who shell
their own where they lay
sheltered in a
tangle of fending arms and
unheard prayers
or whore for votes, greedy
preachers choking
cross-eyed on mouthfuls of
hate and fear,
I gaze at the now empty
nest framed
perfectly in the high
window from the
vantage of the green chair,
home last March
to a pair of hard working
hawks, quiet,
unassuming birds who went about
the business of raising a
family,
Atticus Finch personified
with wings
and talons, wondering
where they’d gone,
lamenting their absence, helpless
against
the gnawing fear we had disappointed
them, viewed snug in our
nest, mute bystanders
to the savagery of
predatory saints.
No comments:
Post a Comment