Jane Feinsod
Ornithomancy; οἰωνίζομαι
An augur says one magpie means sorrow
so I say choke on it. I’m not a magpie,
because I have teeth, among other things.
One thing: I remember people, how they
wouldn’t sing. Another: I tried
to live in a tree. I couldn’t crack it.
Under the auspices, I’m told, the best place for divination—
Then sink. Go down. Make the body into a crowd. As long
as there are birds from the right side, a good omen.
I still can’t tell if I’d prefer playing seer or doctor.
Nevermind. Put the carrots in the bone broth.
For people, not for birds or augurs or pretenders or anything,
tell your crow to stop following me.
It belongs in the catacombs with you.
Regent honeyeaters are forgetting the song.
They’d rather be waste than be off-key,
would rather be a patch of land meeting the comet.
Maybe I was wrong to deny birdhood.
I remember people. How they wouldn’t sing.
I’d rather get the melody wrong than kiss that face
of the comet, the extinction. I’ll take the world every time.
But I refuse to listen to another augur.
Just let me sing, for once.
Don’t say a word.
Jane Feinsod holds an MFA from UMass Amherst (’23), where she was named an inaugural Rose Fellow and was poetry editor of Paperbark Magazine. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Redivider, Orange Blossom Review, Baby Teeth, and elsewhere. She lives in Massachusetts and tweets infrequently @janefeinsod.