Howard Firkin
The butcher birds are singing bloody joy
for spring, for morning, other nesting birds
and fledglings, warm as other lovers’ words,
as certain as a certain girl meets boy.
My bloodied heart is sliding down your throat.
I dangle, forked in your selected tree,
awaiting you, your hunger or your what
the hell, and feel you fall upon me, hot,
impatient, ready to be having me
and singing every morning’s every note.

You’re visiting, I know, each day afresh.
You haven’t come for honey, bread, or bird bath.
You have my trust. I offer it in flesh.
I understand your purpose and your path.