poem23 Jul 2012 05:52 pm
The crow is my own. He tilts his head toward my whispering
I whisper, why? Not for shame that others might hear
but so the other crows should not
for a woman can only be master to one crow at a time.
He claws his way along the branch
one scaly scrape at a time and clucks deep in his throat
like sand over gravel, the words a tale of a long road.
Others, far off in the corn field, taunting
raucous cries blackened eyes onyx lies–
I know them for what they are
and so does he. A twist of his head
he swings his black beak toward me
a hook, a foil, a condemnation
I nod, relishing the pain.
Master to one and hunted by all
I press my palm against the window screen
soon, nothing will separate us.
Tonight, we’ll dine in hell and sweep the field clean.
The heavy steps in the hall fix my breath in my throat
no need to turn around, to see what’s there.
On a breath I whisper away my secret pieces
he, the vessel of my escape
My crow leaps in a sudden sweep of wing and sails away,
the scent of his feathers a balm to a soon-broken soul.

reflected in his shiny gaze
I, the lark within my cage
his raucous cries
the fledgling dies
a murder of crows, a sea of rage


Trackback this Post | Feed on comments to this Post

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.