the year the birds came

the year the birds came
we caught them
with open hands

plump bodies flapping
hard hard, we
pinned them in

snapping their necks
quick! like
cups we broke
when we were five

plucking clean

we roasted them over
a fire

brittle bones crackling

juice trickling down
our chin, we grinned
and told stories of

yesterday and tomorrow

so the birds became
our lusts
flesh charred
desire

our dreams
small empty
flightless

our guilt
left to rot

after dinner
we became depressed

our stomachs
ached

fingers greased with
fat, we wiped

them on our
naked chests
to signify remorse

prayed earnestly to
all bird gods

hear us
hear us

picking flesh
from between
our teeth

spitting
gristle
onto ground

forgive us
we cried

eyes lifted

waiting waiting

waiting for the
birds to come

again

but our prayers
echoed empty
through burnt rib
cages

tremoring
still warm

on the ground

glistening clean
empty fresh

we licked
our fingers
tasting the salt

like a
wounded dog

crept off
howling
into the night

leaving behind
white carnage

and shatters
of what we

had been