Ann Chandonnet
Buzzard Song

Like lightning, I stoop to conquer--
diving from cloud to ground,
waving to commuters at 20,000 feet.
Road-kill can fill me up.
Squirrel
Possum
Gulp
Swallow.
House cat doesn't make you fat.
Maine coon in rigor
is good for the figure.
Ground hog pork chop
is my truck stop.
Indigestion
is out of the question.

In Eden, I shared the serpent's tree.
A hiss or three,
and we drank deep by firefly's flitting lamp.
Lacking carrion,
I sipped insipid nectar.
Then we escaped,
and menus improved.

After a cutting kiss,
my beak drips blood
like a pirate's dirk.
In entrails no secrets--only succulence.

No standing on ceremony
in my business.
I dive right in,
then wipe my plate with fate.

In my book death is a treasure--
my reward for sitting watch.
Corruption is an anodyne.

Marginalia

The dark and stormy morning
swirled closer, roaring like thunder,
like the pounding hooves of a runaway hack.
Choking down black waves of nausea,
she addressed her chores,
until the others pinned on hats
and left on errands.

Then she marched to the pantry
where the purring calico
rested on an old shawl.
Gathering the four smallest kits
into her starched apron,
she descended to the cellar.

The brine was last year's,
all the pickles eaten.
"We come from the sea;
why not return?"
she mused.
She gentled each superfluous bit
into the dark salt
as if slipping croquettes
into hot lard.
No splatters on her white foulard.
There were too many cats already,
visiting from next door,
seeding her daisy beds
with foulness,
clawing up tender plants.

The four mewled bitterly
as she searched for the heavy cover;
soon topped it with a brick
for good measure.
She did not hover,
but strode upstairs at once.

Lovely Salem, Sweet Salem
would chide,
she knew, as she went out to weed.
But fat bumblebees were humming,
the first robins trilling.
No reticent volcano,
she whistled back.

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