No Rock-A-Bye Baby (In the Cradle of Confederation, C. E. 2013)
A north wind here in late June tears the
petals from the Province House poppies.
The limbs of oaks and maples creak under
the weight of crows, gaping, red-mouthed.
I can’t recall a year with so many scattered
pigeon feathers, or keels stripped of flesh.
On the street a homeless woman cries for tampons;
the bough is broken, the cradle has fallen.
And Ottawa offers nothing to the poor they bleed
but a prayer for the wind to fill the wounds with salt.