The Scarlet Ibis
Native to rubber
plantations.
Its wingspan, ten feet.
I judge it
from tail
to beak
a yawning meter
of solid appetite.
Its name derived
from the Persian
for “lavish depiction
of sex and deceit,”
heavy and surreal
in flight,
fawning
over pics of starlets
in dishabille,
desirous
of the flashbulb’s light,
a rabid fan of TMZ.
This bird’s
a fisher
after page-views:
The sweetest nectar
of nipple slips
and baby bumps.
If it can’t have
celebrity—
the edenic light
of being news—
it will take
the trending specter
of tinseltown
divorces,
the social threshing
that gossip
forces.
Flush-cheeked
and feverish
in its treetop home,
refreshing
for the umpteenth
time the page,
it weeps
false tears (like
a crocodile),
and sublimates
its rage.
| Maureen Thorson |
|
