POETRY: Desert Crime Scene

Along the carretera, en route

to the airport, we see them

In the dust. Writhing black

feathers, glossy in the

sun, they jostle for the best

position. Among the ravenous

scrum, one beak

pops up, bloody and

glistening, marble eye shining,

assessing. It returns to its

carnage, unmoved. I sit hard

into the seat of the taxi,

the scene gone in a blast

of hot air. Later, rushing to

catch my flight, I mourn

re-engagement with carnage of a

human sort—war, politics,

social construct, Instagram—

all of us frenzied over

our own bloody meals.