Three turkey vulture’s,
with their saggy scarlet faces,
slid their beaks across the glass
of her window.
Their gray feathers stood out
in the dark, and cast shadows
on her bedroom wall.
She saw them before
a few times a year, maybe more,
and they were hungry
for whatever she had.
She kept a knife in the drawer
just in case they showed up,
and she would slice off tiny bits
of her fingers. They ate out
of her hand, and couldn’t rotate
their eyes, so they would watch
each other blink while they consumed her.
She ran the knife across their necks,
so they could see each other die,
and the texture of their blood
was like a world where she could fly.

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