by Cindy Veach

I’m still not used to the way they converse

on the rooftops of my new neighborhood

amid raised voices and the smell of bacon.

Audible for more than a mile they’re not afraid

to make their presence known, to kraa

“I’m here” to their cronies. Ravens are gutsy,

sure of themselves. Nothing about them

is pretty or timid, not their monochromatic

barrel bodies, not their sharp call,

certainly not their table manners.

I’ve witnessed them dine on roadkill

on the boulevard below my balcony.

Car smart, they harvest a strip of intestine

then take flight inches from oncoming wheels

bloody amuse-bouche dangling from their mouths.

They range the world over, rule the roost

and mate for life while this woman,

who won’t eat pig or cow or lamb, who’s

afraid to speak up, sits alone with her steel

cut oats and Barry’s Irish breakfast tea

pining for a good lover’s spat and bacon.

Cindy Veach is the author of three poetry collections: Monster Galaxy (MoonPath Press), Her Kind (CavanKerry Press) an Eric Hoffer Montaigne Medal finalist and Gloved Against Blood (CavanKerry Press) a Paterson Poetry Prize finalist and Massachusetts Center for the Book ‘Must Read.’ She is poetry co-editor of MER.