Mine

Something mad squeezes the jays like
bike horns. Like chew toys.

There, a hawk, hunched in his silence,
bored with the squabble.

He wants what he wants.

A brown mouse, its tail a pink tickle in his throat.
A chubby vole, warm and juicy.
But a jay will suffice, despite the bother of all that blue.

God, how they screech at him.
Brazen hypocrites,
their beaks gummed up with the buttery yolks of
the never-hatched.

I smack my lips, likewise bloodied with
a beast born and butchered.

We feed ourselves and scream at the hungry
like bike horns, like chew toys with teeth.

This one’s mine, we squawk.
Get your own.