King Vulture

In the aviary, you plunge from branch

to broken branch that barely holds your heft.

Once your ancestor sky-buried my ancestor.

Once you burned carrion into Sirius.

Forgive me, Mayan Messenger, this morning

the only news is of the fence and the rain-ruined faces.

How many breaths do you carry in your caruncle?

Inside this sternum: a brother I never met,

a baby niece to an earthquake, a thousand sisters

to a revolution, Apa. All these séances teach me

nothing about the art of leaving or the pinioned stars.

Show me, Body Breaker, the sacred hunger—

the pillage of the dead names in my throat.