Chris McCurry
Photo: me and the sysop
Stacked underneath the pine behind the shed,
their grey feathers pull away from the bone.
On hot days the stench carries to the house
and flies swarm laying eggs.
Every few days a fresh pair is on top of the rotting:
bloody and white and too heavy to move.
Last night I thought I heard crying.
Every other time there has been laughter,
wild bells of clanging laughter.
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