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MOTH TARTARE

 

The moth does not like this.

   He has ruptured a wing

and is spluttering in the grass.

 

He’s been whacked.  A surprise.

   What is this?  Ee-agh, God!

A blackbird has swiped and acquired him.

 

Now he sees what is up: his belly, tweaked

   under a house-high earth-remover’s

twitchy alert beak, left eye.

 

He gets that tool in his brain; he has ceased

   not to like it.  His abdomen

continues to twist like a club.

 

The moth’s wings flip-flop as the ton of beak

   mashes his thorax.  His wings blink

like eyelids on the garden path.

 

Where will the Black Arrows come from?  The bird

   shoulders her head, eye up,

feeling the rumbles of moth tartare.

   

Alan Marshfield

   

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