Priscilla Becker



I've been a pigeon
             for an eon—
you lift your feet to step,
I jet my bill
                  just like you
existing on sugar & gluten,
though I'm a crumb of a fudged
bagel, a mildew muffin

                    I can walk,
leap, flitter my wings to fly,
sleep anywhere I want,
my hips so wide-open I'm a
               macho slut

no leash (like one
on a couple not allowed
to break up) on me, no pidg-
eon bowl, no chores I have to
do, no family-friendly
policies: mandatory hugs,
obligatory fun

            I made so many
squeaks & squabs, my sewer
stemming into the young hen's
cloaca—one thing I share
with humans: I'm an old

I'm gone before those eggs
crack open, no wish to be
a member of the perching-
bird cult of domesticity

young-hen drafting a hatchling
nest full of cigarettes—

I spread my tail and fled

I know you believe in
science: I am the last
dinosaur: equal
to a billion years



PRISCILLA BECKER “is a dead-drunk writer. Her cart is currently empty. She has successfully logged out.”

Issue Five
Add To Cart