Butcher Bird

I’m going to get me a gun

“what do you hunt?”
“his name’s Lucifer.”

to be a man, you feed your thought
[the] best in the weasel’s cage

a little shocked,
straightened up:
the grown folks shame the predatory animals,
spend time destroying them:
“I hate killing things”

I’m saving this,
I’m going to skin,
speared with the pitchfork, breathless.

still looking to make war on cruel things,
“yes, sir” father always said.

you want to have it,
the promise with the blood thirst.
the cruel ones, like butcher birds,
kill for the fun of it.

original text from ‘Butcher Bird’ by Wallace Stegner
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