Some of us have a vulture
in our psychology. Razor-winged,
it makes a tender cage
of the skull. Its music
is a scream of inquiry.
It puts a claw through any kiss.
It makes little chicks of us;
feather-tailed showgirls.
The sequinned shame of morning
is where it feeds.
Change, for me, is a fluorescent-lit
theory; but I have heard that
some have a songbird.
©Zoe Raven, 2023