THE VULTURES
for Rodney
Women weep like stars
home in our tents, hands
modeling food, legs
stiff. Here, this pass,
barely lit, cool, swimming blood,
holds the hacked bodies of our enemy.
Three days
(though none of us lay
dead or dying) they
circled our tents,
one sometimes swooping down,
feeding its nostrils
something we couldn’t see.
We searched, checked the animals,
questioned the children, beat them
until we were satisfied
they knew nothing.
Each day the circle tightened.
With our King we men
chose by lot one of us,
gave him rest
by a thunderburst of stones,
and carried his freshly
bleeding body here, where
the Vultures followed us.
We laid down our dead brother,
hid behind rocks of titan size,
hands full of blades and stones,
hearts ready.
An enemy swooped but did not stay,
returning to the sky.
He came back down joined by the rest.
When they all were deep in
our brother’s blood we struck,
swung, split heads in flight,
tore their tough feathers as they screeched.
Dried by the moon
and a multiple star we have lost
thirty men.
Thirty more are blinded, eyes
still stuck to our enemies’ claws.
So we go
home where our women wait
to wash our arms and faces
and share with us our rest.
