The Turkey's Complaint
The vague patrolling recollection
sits like a fat white swan on her nest,
cuddling the unborn nakedness, fragile, soundless!
He caresses her wings,
she beats them frantically
as his cold old lips meshes and folds.
Dragging, he goes, she crackles
to the red-stained woods, painted
lovingly with millions that entered before.
His touch blackens and grips
She feeds on youths she hid in her thoughts,
Their time winding down, seconds after seconds.
And with the rage of Moses’s staff,
the loud shed quivers and her incantation feathered gown
sweeps in the red wind. Done, revelation!
The decapitated fowl runs in the eye of a God.
The red man ascends like Lazarus
coming, coming for the next victim of his plague.
Inside my coldness, I feel warmness,
I feel restfulness, I am papery and ready
for his touch of death. Thanks giving to clouds.
Copyright © Marcus Bailey | Year Posted 2016
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