No carpet snake ruffles
our sofa-soft wattles;
no eagle, no dingo. We’re mostly
snug, smug, and suburban.
Our only disturbing
raptorial bird is the postie.

That egg-sucking, chick-chewing,
nest-knocking, bird-biting,
freakishly featherless liar.
He zooms in like terror—
that rucksack! that motor!—
so we bomb him like spitballs, like spitfires.

May he sting from our beaks.
May he bleed. May we break
his bower-blue peace. May his sky fall.
May his universe singe
in a crackle of wings
and shatter to fragments of piebald.

View this poem on The Disappearing »