Eating Crow Poem by robert dickerson

There is a crow on my knee-
a big one, too, quite dead with scaly, stiff legs
clutching an invisible twig of empty air.
It's dead head thrown back
sleek, quasi-mechanical
smooth and comic-ominous
with stiff, shiny feathers
and downswept wings
(Death cannot dull their exquisite iridescence!)
It's glassy eyes half-closed, thank God'
by thick-follicled lids resembling roasted coffee beans-
(birds, who knew, having eye-lashes)
and from it's parted beak
(one so smooth and black it could be plastic)
hangs a pinkish tongue-how fowl!
And I, who think one opinion silly as another
Who've no ideas worth speaking of, mercifully,
Who thinks only that people should be left alone
to follow their inclinations, so long as they hurt nobody-
am eating crow
am eating this very American and highly individualized crow:
Tearing at it's breast, at those large muscles that enable the wings
which are in turn exercised by them.
Stuffing my gob with meat
delicate, raw fingerfood
the breastmeat of this crow that once perched on the shoulder of Billy the Kid;
that once perched on the shoulder of Bonnie,
pretending it's delicious
that it tastes better than roast turkey and dressing;
better than swan
(which itself tastes alot like peacock)
'Man eats crow', crows newspaper-
just the reverse of Villon.