My First Cigarette

There was a butcher at the grocery store
when I was sixteen
who would tell me about his
carnal relations with a canary,
and the culminating
snapping of its neck.
He had needlemarks on his arms,
in between a tiger's claw
and oxidized barb wire.
I noticed this as he handed me
my first cigarette,
a cigarette I requested,
and I saw his wide shoulders
on his squat frame,
his greying beard,
his decayed teeth in a friendly smile,
and the anonymous blood
on his company apron.
His nails were long as talons.
Sometimes, now, when I light
up a Marlboro,
I can't help wondering
if birds have vaginas.