Peacocks

I hate them for their beauty, not just
their possession of it, but how they flaunt it,
shimmering so much splendor into the world.
Flannery O’Connor, whose peacocks
I have seen at Andalusia Farms,
once said of a favorite that he
carried himself as if he not only
had a train behind him but a retinue to attend it.

The males strut about and screech,
and arch their backs. They furl and unfurl
their dazzling trains, the eyes of Argus.
They display their gorgeousness in a manner
both stunning and ridiculous, arrogant
in their pulchritude as if they were gods
who had created it themselves.
And who is worthy of this display?

Peacocks will spread their feathers
for anyone looking, but rattling their train –
that quivering that looks so splendidly orgasmic –
that only happens in front of the plainer peahens
who are meant to be stunned by this radiance,
yet turn away as if the show were dull.
I confess, I share this attitude with them:
No doubt because I was not born beautiful.

By: Sharon Hoffmann

Sharon Hoffmann is a writer based in Atlantic Beach, Florida. Publications include The Hooghly Review, New York Quarterly, Beloit Poetry Journal, Alice Walker: Critical Perspectives (Harvard University Press), Paddler Press, South Florida Poetry Journal, Letters, Wild Roof, Sho, and other magazines. Awards include fellowships from Atlantic Center for the Arts and Florida’s Division of Cultural Affairs, two Pushcart nominations and a nomination for Best Spiritual Literature.