Three Nights with Crow
To climb through layered
dreams and lift the last
tissue of waking, to
find soot on the pillow,
prints splayed and wet.
For three nights there
are nameless children in
cribs, faceless people I’ve
forgotten to feed and
coddle. When the nursery
door opens, they move
into the next room
through walls, like ghosts.
I’ve given names to
even earrings and the
tags around the dog’s
neck—names like
sweet ones, and
low-jingles—now
when it matters, there
are only crossword
puzzles with boxes
half-filled, the forgotten
syllable, the blind
hope of touch. He
dips his beaked face
over mine, eyes widely
spaced, sore from flying
into the sun—grips the
off-green egg with
care—lays it
within the slippery-walled
nest among wood
shavings, kapok and
horse hair for its
eighteen-day gestation.
Deeper still, to the
place truths unrobe,
where children
wear avian heads
(feathers bristled along
their spines), where
he removes human
offspring, arcs overhead,
returns for the mother.
(Previously published in The Burden of Wings)
