Harpy

If I spoke English, I’d say, “Look at that hot bird”
and I’d mean girl, the one with wings and a bright fantail
who blew in like the wind from somewhere so absurd
you couldn’t say whether weather was the guilty gale
that swept her here. She’s hungry for something, manic, mannish,
tearing at the world like a kid at a candy wrapper.
What is that otherworldly shrieking? What shrill shrew?
She’s looking. Look into her steely eyes and vanish—
she’s scratching you. If I had a girl like that, I’d slap her
on a Grecian urn and tell her she’s beautiful, it’s true.

Jaimee Hills