Feast If You Would Not Sing

I am not Tippi Hedren.

I invite the birds to pick me clean.

The crows, but also lesser ones --

The chickadees and piping plovers

Parakeets released against all odds

And yes the common terns fed often on the bubbling flats of Brighton Beach

By members (former members) of the Comintern.

Reptilian all.

Remarking that I draw the line at seagulls

Having yellow eyes,

As icy in their feeding

As a mantis biting off at once

The living brain case of a living fly.

A burial by air it has been called.

Dis-integration is another word.

But thank you birds I couldn't do it by myself --

I fed you nuts and popcorn

And you could have held out for Hartz Mountain,

Cursed the god indeed who made you scavengers

Condemned to play your silly tunes at dawn,

When I was hoping that the deepest dark

Would keep the silence

Til I made my peace

With this, my final passage,

Not forsaken,

Passed the chicken wings

And said my prayers,

Still corporeal

If not corporate.

Non-attachment to all things --

It was my mantra

When I was not focusing

On women if the truth be told

Most often in their icy, craven flowerings.

Perhaps the next time

They will draw me close

By asking without pretense

Why the hungry passionless robotic

Caged bird sings.