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Salmon Poetry

Little Murders Everywhere

Rebecca Morgan Frank

As for me, I was merely an accessory:
I raised the ax and chopped the frozen squirrel in thirds.

The red-tailed hawk watched me
marble-eyed,

our fear strung as taut as the line that joined us.
When I offered her the unwanted –

tiny beaks,  spindly legs (male chicks from the factory)–
she came to me, swallowed them whole, left 

not a trace of yellow in my covered palm.
Our rope never loosening the length between us.

I tried to please her, found corpses everywhere,
scraped them from the pavement, then

transported, froze, and butchered them.
Small birds, two chipmunks,

a pregnant field mouse. A rattlesnake.
Dark-blood bodies, casualties I didn’t mourn.

I loved only her, her snapping severed wing,
that vicious grip, her equivalent of a fist.

And what could she think of me?
I was the dark room, the leather glove, the rope.


Copyright Rebecca Morgan Frank 2012

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