A Gyring Flock of Violence

A cloud of feathers follows her and not

Of hummingbirds, their throats of scarlet, thrum

Of death, of scarlet death, their hatred hot,

Their pinions cauterized, a throttled hum.

The wings and throats that follow her will search

For nectar in another life, if world

Beyond there be, but like a plane’s ghost lurch

Before it plummets, life inside it furled,

In panic made of screams, her heart feels clasp

Of fate.  The feeling of him in her, hard

Inside her, opens up her chest.  Her rasp

Like rattling, depths in hell, leaves loving charred.

  She felt his weight upon her as he shoved

    His maleness in.  She smelled that she was loved.

 © Phillip Whidden

                                    Phillip and Federico