It's Still Life

A Poet’s Mythology in 101 Words

a crow
kicks aside
summer clouds

and dives
into the sky.

wings
hung by wind,
touched by landscape.

I am twelve,

drawing crow sigils
on my arm,

my ink-black wing,
a piercing
for the dark branch
of my heart,

conquered
by a crow
that desires speech.

that was my childhood:

my hands
inside black nests
full of pointed beaks,

lifting
a featherless nestling
back into mythology.

all those years ago,
gone …

and now my hands
callused with language,

still listening
for wings
beating like rain
against windows
at dusk
outside.

I am a poet

who once gave
a crow
a voice.

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