Martha McCollough
—
Condors
I saw one caged alone in Salt Lake City:
all mournful stillness
the shock when it stirred, raising
huge wings like a threat of storm
a plumed hanging judge
head a bony pink fist
wild condors sleep prone, heads
tucked, in mountain treetops
under expressionist moonlight
harsh and hard-edged
by day the stately arrival at the deathbed
the grisly funeral rites and chattering wake
soaring, the condor forgets it is tagged and measured
is unaware that it transmits a signal
knows one favorite fact: everything
living wants to keep on and cannot
Martha McCollough lives in Amherst, Massachusetts. She has an MFA in painting from Pratt Institute. Her poems have appeared in Radar, Zone 3, Tampa Review, and Salamander, among others. Her chapbook, Grandmother Mountain, was published by Blue Lyra Press in October 2019, and her full-length book of poems, Wolf Hat Iron Shoes, will be out in Spring 2022 from Lily Poetry Review Books.
* Poems are intended to be read on larger screens. Mobile and narrow browser windows break the original format of pieces with longer line lengths
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