It was bad, and it was
It was/ the image in my mind
Don't think I can dismantle it

Walked into the kitchen
On the windowsill-- ravens
Their silhouettes more black, more beautiful,
More terrifying than usual
Bent over two newly hatched pigeons
In the flower box

The eyes of one chick a bluish purple,
Stared at me through its closed lids
Below its head an explosion of flesh
And so young
I have never seen flesh so young
So pink and shinny

I went through the motions of vomiting
As my son scraped up the remains
and put them in a box

Their mother returned
Went through a series
Of identical heaving motions
(Most probably a reflex,
Back with food in her belly
To regurgitate it for them)

I listened to the ravens in the distance, cawing
Knowing that what was feeding that sound
Was my baby pigeons

The word written in bold and black
On the small square box
In which my son carried them away:

POEMS

A Tibetan Buddhist's Sky Burial.
A Zen Buddhist's Understanding

"However beautiful- it is useless.
However terrifying- it is harmless."

But as a poet-- feel, looking
Upon that youngest, pinkest
Shining flesh opened

Beneath that gaze of closed eyes
I have looked, once again
Into the Heart of Darkness

"The horror. The horror."

© 2003 - Philomene