A parrot is lying
on dewy grass.
Her chest is split,
her neck is snapped,
and her black eyes
deflect morning
light while greedy flies
creep across
her ruined wings, rubbing
their little hands
together
in prayer.

Twelve hours earlier, maybe
more, maybe less, this feathered
thing would have been ripping
pink blossoms off trees; waking
people up with selfish squawks,
thoughtless screams.

Now, she’s dead.
And in a few days, weeks, months,
the grass will soak up
her bones, her feathers
will disintegrate, the wind
will scatter whatever else
remains,
the world will forget,
and it will be like she never existed
to begin with.

However, at the moment,
the sweet scent of her carcass
is so obvious, so hard to ignore,
that passersby will probably mourn
for her.

I can see them now.

They’ll pause
for a minute, bow
their heads, and place
one hand over their chests.
Or else, they’ll catch a glimpse
of slippery intestines, spilling out
the side of a shredded gut,
and wince
before turning away.

And for the rest
of the day, these passersby will try
to walk their thoughts around
the parrot’s corpse.

But at night, images
of outstretched claws,
silenced beaks
will dig into their minds,
and peck away
at their brains until
they finally fall
asleep.

Her death doesn’t bother me, though.
I just don’t care, and I don’t know why
I should.
What difference would it make?
She is dead.
And if someone were to ask
me, I’d say the stupid
bird got what was coming
to her.

If you were to ask
me, I’d say
we all have – or will.

Most of us,
at least.

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