Avoiding Evangelism
by Alyssa Peterson
Seven turkey vultures assemble on the overhang of the co-op
elevator. Beady eyes swivel toward their harvest, carried
to town by a procession of semi-trucks. Exhaust
fume drifts to a pair of swooping wings, silver at the edges,
grazing the silo
as it falls upon the body of a dead thing lying in the kernels.
To feed turkey vultures plunge their beaks into the chest
cavities of rotting flesh; cathartes aura, derived from
the Greek katharsis, and the Latin aureus, or possibly the
Greek aura, which
has a slightly different meaning. So, the turkey vulture
is either a golden purifier or a cleansing breeze.
A winged exposé: Death by Consumption; the Path to Life!
Flesh is torn and dissolved
into a bowel.
I lived across the street from the co-op
when I was a child. The vultures took dog-sized shits
in our yard and watched from on high
as we buried my childhood cat. They were ravenous
yet contained
patiently waiting for the body to be left unattended
before buried in the ground. This was how
I observed them first: cloaks of onyx
draped over hunched backs, slouched
at the pulpit.
The turkey vulture will go on eating
regardless of what it’s called. The meaning projected
obscures the act. Western symbol of death, the vulture
is triangulated between death and purity rather than
death and loss.
Garish cavities on either side of a scarlet head, their
olfactory system allows them to smell prey from up to
a mile away, which encompasses the area of my town.
They are watchful, and I am perpetually
on alert.
Alyssa Peterson (they/she) is a writer and musician living in Chicago. They studied the classical saxophone at Interlochen Arts Academy, and English and sociology at Northwestern University. Their work has previously appeared in Helicon Literary Magazine. They collect records and have a cat named Nigel, and they spend a lot of time shooing him out of the kitchen sink. Follow them on Instagram at @alyssampeterson