Tia Leigh Carioli
First Kill

In the alley by the bar at the bottom of my street
the pigeon waddles several steps.
Wings flap about, bruised and oddly bent.
I lean against my bike resting on the fence
watching intently.
A breeze rustles empty cigarette cartons, soda cans,
a herd of bumpy clouds roam overhead.
I straddle my bike, walk towards the dirty feathered bird,
its limping legs like snapped twigs
buckling under its weight.
My wheels slowly creep forth.
Then, bump-ump, I ride over its dense body,
like trampling my sister's Cabbage Patch dolls.
It lays there, flutters.
Bump-ump, I ride backwards over it again,
then forwards, back,
this time pressing down, smashing,
bouncing the wheel off its body.
now it is an immobile feathered lump.
I kneel down to inspect
but stop short,
remembering the half-full juice box
sitting on my front step.

<< Back to Issue 3, 2000