If you think it’s a hawk, it’s probably a turkey vulture. —Park ranger, overheard
Why are we drawn to the hawk’s fabled stoop,
that steep dive toward the dust of the earth’s crust?
Do we hold the hawk to be a spirit,
otherworldly bringer of cryptic signs?
Why count ourselves richer if it’s a hawk?
The deadly raptor captured with our eye.
Say it: hawk, that awkward keen, like a cry.
Lose yourself in the wingspan of vowel.
Now, close your throat on vulture. Gag on it.
Bury your nose in the guttural heave.
In the meat aisle you hesitate, pluck up
the plastic-wrapped package of scraped pale thighs.
Or a square of meat, dripping red. Could we
coat our heads with the blood of what we eat?
—
Renée M. Schell’s debut collection, Overtones, was published in 2022 by Tourane Poetry Press. Her poetry appears in New Verse News, Catamaran Literary Reader, and many other journals. She was lead editor for the anthology (AFTER)life: Poems and Stories of the Dead. A Best of the Net nominee, she holds a Ph.D. in German Studies and also taught at a Title I school in San José. Find her at www.reneemschell.org.
