The Albatross

By Grace Marsh

Those men, all drunken sailors out bird-

spotting gave me the once-over, no need

to bind a blind thing, a majesty turned

wingtorn and ragged. "Why trap it? It will

fall soon enough, onto our ship, into our laps,

our mouths, our tongues — it's hardly a catch

when the poor bitch can't leave." Beer-

fuddled, their words cast nets and I 

falter, stand still on the deck, stop my

fruitless flapping in favour of collapsing —

you win, you men, you drunken sailors,

this crippled bird is yours to play with.

By Grace Marsh