Feathermucker
by Timothy Otte
poem originally appeared in SAND Journal, issue 11.

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​(   (   (       a cage of ribs pointing
toward the sky. this wingéd

thing        :     no longer feathered,
hardly flesh. what’s left
is part of the concrete,

part of the native city.
a lump of calcium.
a hard sharp beak        half open

a caw, a cry of fear, a sigh.
what creature was this that fell broken
into the gutter,        the ditch?

ribs pointing at the sky. let your eyes
follow their arc into
the dark air       :    you think it’s night

—look closer         :    bodiless feathers
blocking the sun       )   )   )