Sunset opened bright as a blade

inside the train, returning

to the millside of town.

Told the conductor Meet

my friend as buildings went

from gray to brown. At the depot

we heard thunder and watched,

waited. But thought not

of land deeds or livestock.

To know the smell of his hands

(burn barrel and Sundays) was new

and enough.

I lived then by a place called

Buzzard’s Glory by locals

who shot birds from the sky

for dinner as swift as plucking

a dish off a menu. Though experts

warn never to eat vulture meat

even rotten food fills an empty stomach,

people in Pennsylvania say. Hard

to tell, looking at a buzzard,

how full of disease they are, how

quick contamination works its way in

and through. Hard to believe a good

looking thing can make you sicker

than you’ve ever been. But some

tuck into them, fork and knife,

for years. Their whole lives, practically.

Stephanie McConnell is from Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in River Heron Review, The Ponder Review, the Under Review, The Paterson Literary Review, Sugar House Review, BarBar, Quibble, Sad Girls Club, The Dewdrop, Hare's Paw Literary Journal, and The Worcester Review.