Rachel Eliza Griffiths

HUNGER

Weeks after her death I came to the garden windowto marvel at sudden pale feathers catching, scatteringpast the rainy glass. I looked for magic everywhere.Signs from the afterlife that I was, indeed, distinct.Beneath the talon of a red-tailed hawk a pigeonmoved briefly until it didn’t. The hawk strippedthe common bird, piercing its thick neck. Beak probing bodyuntil I could see the blood from where I stood inside.This could happen, naturally enough, even in Brooklyn.This could happen whether or not my mother was dead.I didn’t eat for weeks because it felt wrong to want bread & milk.The hawk’s face turning red, beautiful as it plucked & pickedits silver-white prey apart. It wasn’t magic, but hungrily, I watched.As if I didn’t know memory could devour corpsescaught alive in midair. I opened the window,knelt on the fire escape. I was the prey& hawk. This was finally myself swallowingthose small, common parts of me. Tearing all of that awayinto strips, pulling my breast open to the bone. I saw myselftorn apart, tearing & tearing at the beautiful face,the throat beneath my claw. My grieving face redwith being exactly what I knew myself to be.