Driving through
hot brushy country
the late autumn,
I saw a hawk
crucified on a
barbed-wire fence.
I guess as a kind
of advertisement
to other hawks,
saying from the pages
of a leading women’s
magazine,
“She’s beautiful,
but burn all the maps
to your body.
I’m not here
of my own choosing.”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem