Buzzards Poem by Mark Heathcote

A buzzard inside me is calling, circling,
has done since the day of my natal birth
I've laughed at his black wingspan spreading
blocking the heat the warmth of the sun
I laugh at his skinny wrinkled girth, and
their lack of any heavenly-tabled, crumb.

Those buzzards might get their suppers, fill
might digest my carcass empty shell
-gorge that hungers malevolent hooked bill.
Yet still, a Tibetan sky burial should suit well.
I'd hover; I'd fast, in bliss and ecstasy,
I'd gaze at them…in the bowels of hell.

Amidst all of this, I'd thank myself lucky,
I didn't fall under their un-brotherly knell.