Monday, October 1, 2012
Buzzards, I think,
As I stand off to the side,
Detaching myself from the moment,
Not wanting to take part in the carnage.
They, we, are like buzzards.
Picking at the bones,
Cracking them to get to the marrow.
Pulling at bits of flesh, each wanting our own piece
Buzzards do not consider
That this carcass was once a living thing
It is only sustenance.
The past life does not matter now.
I am like a buzzard too.
I want my piece of her, of the past.
My grandmother's quilt, my grandfather's Army medals.
The bread pans she used every Sunday, a shelf he made for her.
We pick and pull, we scavengers.
I am disgusted by us, by myself, our circling predation.
I still crave my bits, pieces of their lives to sustain my memories.
A buzzard I must be, or I will have nothing of them.