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That night, I opened your wardrobe and found
a trophy of vultures, their necks pierced
by hanger hooks. I saw at once
that you hunted everything I loved –
the griffon, the Himalayan, the lammergeier,
who haunted our home with wheeling cries.
I peeled off my skin then, and robed myself
as a bird bride. Veiled in morning mist
I married the sky. Of course, you aimed
at my heart, but as the bullet tore through me
I wrapped my talons around your skull,
lifted you high, and dropped you as a lamb
drops newborn from his mother
onto the snow-fleeced earth.
I landed beside you on the quilt.
And when the flesh-eaters had done their work,
it was I, your lammergeier daughter,
who devoured your bones – look, Father,
how they slide down my throat like rifles.
Copyright 2024 Pascale Petit. First published in Poetry.
Pascale Petit was born in Paris and lives in Cornwall, UK. She is of French, Welsh, and Indian heritage. Her eighth collection of poetry, Tiger Girl (Bloodaxe, 2020), was shortlisted for the Forward Prize and for Wales Book of the Year. Her seventh, Mama Amazonica (Bloodaxe, 2017), won the inaugural Laurel Prize and the RSL Ondaatje Prize. Her debut novel, My Hummingbird Father, is due from Salt in 2024 and her ninth collection, Beast, from Bloodaxe in 2025.

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Thank you for your encouragement Laure-Anne, Lisa and Michael!
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Breathtaking imagery – particularly the last line, I actually shuddered.
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Thank you! 🙏🏽
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Thank you! 🙏🏽
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Such incredible imagery. Very powerful.
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Yes, it is incredible.
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Thank you! 🌿
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Thank you, Clayton 🦌
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Holy moly, what a poem!
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I love this, Lisa. I wish I had a blurb that said Holy Moly.
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I second Lisa ‘s exclamation: what a poem! Chilling.
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