Katy McKinney

Alone on the Tideline, Tenacatita

A group of vultures, gathered in a tree or on the ground, is called a committee. When circling in formation, they’re a kettle, and when feeding on a carcass, a wake. Last week on the beach I passed a wake of fifteen, stabbing and pecking at a large tuna that had washed ashore, its body mostly whole, though several organs—swim bladder? liver?—were lying on the sand. The next morning: only two vultures and what was mostly a skeleton, its bones a surprising turquoise. Yesterday, another wake, and when I found they’d surrounded a turtle, I shooed them away, thinking maybe she’d come ashore to lay her eggs, maybe I could rescue her, but her flaccid body told me she’d come to a different end. Why should her death bother me more?

PET scan
unwanted stars
scattered, aglow

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About the Author

Katy McKinney is a Washington State poet whose work has been published in numerous journals (The Sun, Cirque, The Sow’s Ear Poetry Review) and in several anthologies. She received her MFA from Pacific University in 2006. Her first book, Fireproofing the Woods, was the winner of the 2019 North Street Book Prize in poetry. It’s available through www.katymckinney.com.

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