Crying fowl, the carved wounds on you take flight.
Your grounded white downy body,
greasy upon my hands, empty.
I imbibe you as your executioner
of plumage and flesh, the one who eats the insulate
Finding all the dust-choked pond pieces
that have become sodden, over the years:
The one who went prowling. I found you
this time, you who spent all that time growing
from an egg, you, the wettened,
smelling of birch trees, until the day we slayed you.
I’ll encase you, sleep remembering,
but forgetting something soft as you.