Meryl Stratford

There’s something in me that loves
the squirrel and hates the hawk,
but when I consider how the hawk’s

hunger inhabits him and inhibits
any habit of pity, it would be
strange in a park full of squirrels

if there weren’t any hawks. And,
when I see the pink and red
of a ribeye impaled on my fork,

I fly with the hawk
and my food has a mind
of its own.