Who Killed the Carolina Parakeet?

by Dilys Rose

Who killed the Carolina Parakeet?
I, said the farmer, with my gun, I killed the Carolina Parakeet.
Shot ‘em by the barrowload
for stripping my crops.
It was the darnedest thing:
they’d scatter at the rifle crack,
then fly right back for more.  
When I was done, the fields
were awash with feathers.

Who else helped?
I, said the woodsman, with my whetted axe, I helped.
I laid waste to their habitat,
swampy wetland forest
replete with hollow tree trunks—
they loved a humid riverbank.
With nowhere left to nest
and raise their young,
their numbers plummeted.

Who saw them die?
I, said the naturalist, with my limner’s eye, I saw them die.
I bought myself a basketful
of the finest, freshly shot specimens
and, with pins and wire, fashioned  
an illusion of exuberance:
this tableau vivant was the model for
my renowned engraving—and how
poignant a memento it remains!

Who else saw them die?
I, said the modiste, with my avid eye, I saw them die.
Their profusion was a godsend
to my trade: demand was sky-high.
The ladies couldn’t get enough
of such cheerful plumage
and every conceivable part—
scalps, wings, tails, feet—
adorned bonnets and brooches.

Who’ll sew the shroud?
I, said the modiste, to atone for my greed, I’ll sew the shroud.
I’ll stitch until my fingers bleed
and stain the linen red.
I’ll stitch until my sight
is as good as gone,
and I can no longer tell
yellow feathers from green—though
that won’t bring them back.

Who’ll dig their grave?
I, said the naturalist, to pay for my squander, I’ll dig the grave.
I’ll find a clearing by the river,
and dig deep and wide.
I’ll stroke soft heads,
cradle downy breasts.
One by one, I’ll wrap them
in the winding cloth
and lay them side by side.

Who’ll sing a psalm?
I, said the farmer, to stifle their shrieks, I’ll sing a psalm.

Who’ll be the parson?
I, said the woodsman, I’ll trade my axe for a prayer book.
 
Who’ll carry the coffin? Who’ll bear the pall? Who’ll toll the bell?
We’ll all carry the coffin, all bear the pall, all toll the bell,  
said the farmer, the woodsman, the naturalist and the modiste
and, chastened, shamefaced, we’ll mourn our Carolina Parakeet.