by Ellyn Lichvar
Poor motherless bird versus God.
Whole nest of bodies shrouding him—
pushing, pulling—and your single
limp wrist in downward wave
at the universe, your own source
of indifference, soon to be center of.
A joke. Absurd image born of
nonchalance, miseducation. It wasn’t
my fault: Sliver of bone, slimmest rib.
It’s no wonder I came second.
If you hadn’t eaten what I put
between your lips you would have
starved. Would that have been
preferable? Keep creating a new image,
set of likes. Shift blame. Set aside
want for salvation. Pull up the line
again and again until at its end is
sexual spectacle or, rather, I hope,
a healthful dinner for when I’m away.