This poem arises from the prompt in Magpie Tales #39.
The prompt, at http://www.magpietales.blogspot.com/ is this jpg.

WARNING

After tomorrow's feast
there will be spread my entrails.
Men with my thigh bones
fixed in their hair, with white
stripes painted on the skin
will make flat-footed dances
round the mess that yesterday
drove my blood, my hunger,
and my raucous mornings.

Do you not know my bowels
predict invasions, tempest,
war? When rains come late
my liver tells it. The stars
are fallible. My guts
are not. My crop foretells
your crop, its excellence
or dearth. My blood has
soaked the Earth in cause
of prophecy.  I am
an Evil Eye that maddens
men in thrall to ignorance.

I wake you, die to feed you.
That is my lot, except -
when all is done, my plumage
scorched, my flesh chewed up,
my ripped-out heart still pulses
with your fate. Watch me in awe.
Headless I can still run.
And I know when you will die.