A Walk In The Park

Black vultures sail

through the blue

with ease

over something dead

inside me.

Beyond their flight,

my eyes catch

the first quarter moon,

faintly growing

in the daylight.

At the ball courts,

a mother carries her

screaming little girl,

tiny legs thrashing

against her hips

in protest,

demanding what

she wants

and feels

she needs.

Anger, then grief,

goes so easily

through her—

alive, unmoored—

while mine waits,

dark and cold

for a trigger

to the chest.

I have more in common

with vultures—

silently watching

from the power lines.

Without vocal chords,

they sometimes hiss,

grunt, and coo,

to be fed

whatever’s

left.