old mama scarecrow is sackcloth on a trellis.
small figurehead on the prow of a sunk vessel,
pastoral leftovers of a conked-out kingdom,
stiff against the stink of hot lightning and corn.
scarecrow is the mama of several small birds.
she dies like children hollering across cities,
she dies like an Oldsmobile’s soured engine.
she holds out her hands to the moth-strewn night.
she will give up her body heat
for a hope brittle as stars.
