by Sara Burge

Last fall, in my backyard, I watched a hawk devour
a smaller, less bomb-ass bird. She saw me watching
and stared bitchily back before drowning her beak
in innards.

                     Some nights I wake to gut pain, like talons
slipping inside, while outside my window
America dares me to complain. America
licks the glass, mouth-breathing.

Sara Burge is the author of Apocalypse Ranch (C&R Press) and her poetry has appeared in or is forthcoming from Virginia Quarterly Review, Prairie Schooner, The American Journal of Poetry, Atticus Review, Cimarron Review, River Styx, and elsewhere.