Vermin

By Sydney Mayes

If I was a corvid—likely a pied raven

or a disillusioned jackdaw—I too would

pick the highest branch in the tallest redwood

farthest from you fuck ass primates. Truthfully,

what would the ground have to offer me?

Starvation disguised as scavenge? A flash

of silver in a wastebin nest? A barrel’s silver

flash at my temple—once I saw three black

billed magpies glint prism and fight

over a Krispy Kreme donut—this was out in

Lone Tree which used to be a shoulder

of knurled conifers, potato beetles sat on

the dew wet breath of their ancient spines,

troupes of berries that needle cover dyed

jam blue in the springtime. And just like I keep

coming back to rut through the glazed scraps

of my home, sky browned by Teslas

and water restrictions, prehensile knuckles

dragging up pocket gophers, suffocating 

brandling worms with nylon turf, boxy condos, 

luxury bodegas, the magpies return

to the place of their gorge: seed bugs, embryonic

monarchs, frenzied backs of chipmunks,

only to find banquet of dump trucks, dull faced

hunters who consider their hungered rummage,

shrill caw, a nuisance. If I was a magpie,

a curl-crusted jay, a different type of black

winged vermin—I too would spit in the faces

of capuchin hued humans, upright asshats

whose extinctive bullets puncture quartz

white wing, smog starred midnight,

the conservationist label of least concern.

About the Author

Sydney Mayes is a poet from Denver, Colorado. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Atlantic, Gulf Coast Journal, Beloit Poetry Journal, Poet Lore, Poets.org and Prairie Schooner among other publications. Executive Editor of Nashville Review, Inaugural Only Poems Poet of the Year, and a finalist for the 2024 Furious Flower Prize and the 2024 Adrienne Rich Award, Mayes can be found on Instagram: @sydney_gabrielle_mayes