Divine Property LXIV: Turkey

by Tim Gavin

I am sitting on a busted chair in the courtyard
Of St. Matthias deep in the rural mountains once
Again agonizing when I return home,
Will I consider coming back?
Coming back to see this turkey – his right foot tethered
And the line anchored to a tent peg
And he circles, gobbling and pecking
At the line trying to free itself –
Wondering there must be more to life
Than this circumference – a limit
From one extreme to another,
Thinking about its own spiral of history,

His proud plumage and his snood and wattle.
He thinks of being, as he once was,
Buried in bush and brush,
Feeling secure like a bull ready
To bellow, shaking the ground
With luminous anger of his steps,
Fire on the fringe of his wings,
Leading a charge against the foreigners,
ambushing them with curiosity and dread,
Understanding he has the upper hand
And he can be brutal if he desires
Or just forget it all and call it history
Or he can bring me back to this spot
On this broken chair where I contemplate
If it makes a difference or not –
His coming to terms with
This current radius
Is all he and I will ever know.