a turkey vulture lifted from a field
that I still love.
It was hunting season, birds flew off
at the sound of rifles,
we warred with rabbits.
The vulture’s head was bald and delicate
like the old men who wore hats
with names on them like Ford, USA and Dodgers,
to cover their soft skin, old men
who stood in front of the breakfast truck stop
across from the field, the butter partly melted
in the middle of the grits, they also the vulture,
knew how to scavenge
gathered like horses or stars in a junk yard
looking for a rusted pearl.
Those old men have died in their sleeps by now,
though no field could care
how many will fall in it and why.
I want to sit here tonight
still in love and vulture-less
listening to Sade.
I’m still the boy who walked
through a dying sweet potato field,
our small town wouldn’t recognize me now.
I have a different body,
a dented body,
field-less and far gone. [End Page 47]
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