They know where to find me when they want to feed.

At dusk I prepare, lay out the fat

and spread unspeakable off al in snow

like scarlet necklaces. They know

how to find me. They are my words

for beauty and other birds

fight them, vulgar, down threads of air

which bring them to me. They brawl for hair,

for skin, torn giblets and gizzard which I

provide for them, domestic. Inside

the house is so cold I can see my breath,

my face in the polished oak. My mouth

is sweet with silence. Talon and claw

are tender to me, the craw

much kinder than men. What is most foul

in me kites love. At night I feel

their clear minds stirring in rowan and oak

out in the desert. I stroke

the counterpane, my sleepless skies

filled with the stars of untameable eyes.