The sore wet wounds, broke open, but the break beneath;
soaked feathers splayed with raw, red meat
and the wet stains the asphalt dark.
Chest deep with muscle, useless now;
the hounds strain to know
the extent of the death.
Wait for the light to change;
to walk home, feed them, brush their fur;
born hunters that can not unlearn
the bloodlust. But the pigeon?
Wheeling harsh, whole clouds, shit stains and disease;
the filthy feet a rosy pink so sweet.
Strut proud, bright glisten.
Die in pursuit of crumbs.
…
© 2018 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.
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