Quarry by Tiffany Noelle Fung
Strangled. Their necks lie twisted among
The reeds—it reminds me of seaweed
And algae bulbs swollen in brown and orange.
—What can survive in that carefully
Tightening coil, that relentless knot—their heads
Five feet away from their maggot-ridden wings.
Those eyes looked away (past the marsh)
Before letting go. Three question marks
Decomposing at sunset. Nowhere did I smell
Gunpowder or hear the approach of eager
Hounds. Tonight the landscape released
And heaved with the mass of these geese.
The tableau of thin willows (charcoaled
By an edge of horizon) submerges
The tilt of their leaden descent—