A new poem by Stacey Madden

The Vulture 

The shapes I see in the sky
Are murderous.
Cello strings choke-coiled
Around a neck,
Head in a sack,
Body tied to a bed of
Molars, roots-up.
The speckled vulture circles,
Famished and depressed.
Pandas with cancer
Keep a steady beat,
Paws pounding
Their own tumours:
A metastasized pulse.
Splintered cell phones
Shish-kebabbed on pikes
Like so many dead
Electronic fish.
Clouds close in,
Frame the image
In a perfect circle,
And when I blink
It’s gone – buried deep
In the moulded part
Of my brain, but still
Stalking my waking life,
Waiting to bite
When my sickness
Breaks its silence –
When the speckled vulture
Reforms itself to eat
My dead heart whole.