The blue jays at my window

sing out a simple scream.

It is the dying day 

of the woman named Irene.

Her son was at the movies;

her husband in the hearse;

it’s really not that shocking

that this story gets quite worse.

You won’t attend her funeral;

you say it’s much too hard;

you cannot take the blame that

you’re why her face is scarred.

You cry out that it’s torture—

this weight around your neck,

but no one sympathizes

when the murderer’s a wreck.

Irene sits up in heaven,

and now the birds will sleep,

but they will not start chirping 

when they find you six feet deep.

Begin your slow descent 

towards your gloomy, crescent doom;

the blue jays are now choking

on your smoky, trailing plume.