All day long, I wait as an offering,
insides turned out- skin, flesh, bones-
prepared like an open feast,
all for the birds to eat.
My hands outstretched, I wait for them
to come and perched on my stiff shoulders;
to peck on my eyes and to peel away
layers upon layers of muscles and sinews
until they get to gobble my heart
which still grows on its own
as long as I stand on this very ground.
This ground…this fickle mistress
Of both death and life.
Seasons upon seasons, I stand here-
Never wincing at the pain.
Children cry at my demise
But I laugh as the birds devour.