Art by Robin Henry.
© Please do not reproduce without artist's permission.
by Rebekah Rempel
The gentleman, always overdressed for the occasion
in a black suit and pressed white shirt.
He forgets he’s only here for the food.
The conductor, who turns a carcass into an orchestra pit.
From his podium of exposed breastbone, he flicks his beak
and leads his fellow scavengers to crescendo, coat-tails dripping red.
The magician—his ragged chatter saws the day in half.
And he makes things disappear—like the rabbit
on the road, ribbon by colourful ribbon.
The detective. All business. Swiftly careens through town
in that classic police cruiser. One of the first to arrive
at every death.
The magpie, despite his varied perches, sees no grey areas
in his corvid world. Everything is black and white, starkly
defined. Death is so damn easy.
Rebekah Rempel studied creative writing at the University of Victoria. Her poems have appeared in Force Field: 77 Women Poets of British Columbia (Mother Tongue Publishing) and Unfurled: Collected Poetry from Northern BC Women (Caitlin Press), as well as Lake and Room. Her poems are also forthcoming in Prairie Fire and online through Cactus Heart Press.