Grackle
       

Tense as the string my older cousin held taut,
I crouched behind an oak, transfixed by a milk crate
Propped by a stick, and weighted down with a brick.

And a trail of bread set out on the backyard grass.
Bread our immigrant elders said was a sin
To leave on your plate, and even if it was hard

And stale was never ever thrown away.
Before I knew what a grackle was I saw one
Bow his hesitant head to the mouth of our trap.

The sun was almost down. Heraldic he was,
In his glossy, pitch-black, shining plumage. Awful—
Godawful—the grackle's cry at the tug of a string.

Helpless our terrified captive, thrashing so wildly
That feathery wisps came floating through the grates.
Triumphant my cousin planting one foot on the crate.

But then he tilts it back. And never again
The up-whoosh of wings so close to my startled ear.
And now there's no escaping that pitch-black bird

Alighting on the grass, in the afterglow
Of give us this day our daily bread—as if
He'd come to announce another century

Of steerage, and starving villages, and awful cries.

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Copyright © 2019 George Kalogeris All rights reserved
from Five Points
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission