A rafter in the back woods:
five toms and eighteen hens,
a remnant of the Pilgrim myth
that predicated genocide.
Bobbing heads and fanned tails,
almost our national bird.
If I hunted, I’d choose the alpha male;
primal man is another myth.
Breast-heavy and flightless,
my turkey resembles nothing.
Each year I cook it Cuban style.
The hens, more interested
in bugs than formal displays,
leave courtship to the males.
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