The Grapevine Art and Soul Salon

Crows roost outside my window cawing
their dire predictions. Do they hear the car,
rushing to meet me, ninety miles an hour
on the wrong side of the road?
Do they see the faceless man
waiting in shadow, his blade bared?
Do they smell the silent rot of
flesh under my smooth skin?
Mother, you warn me from a suicide’s grave.

Heads jerking, your ravens prance,
reminding me to cover my teeth.
The evening news shows streets soaked
in bloody litter, a child’s body torn
for a father’s pleasure, flattened faces
of the homeless. The world teems
with people whose eyes are plucked out
by crows posing as children and lovers.
You tap your cane, Mother, nod approval.

Black birds soar overhead, carrion eaters
searching for prey. I count my pleasures
on trembling fingers, watch shadows
of their wings flicker on strangers’ faces.
Must I lie down, soft and spread, to wait
for the shadowy man, for the car cresting
the hill, for the scalpel slice on my breast?
You promised me this much, Mother, and more.

At night crows roost inside my brain
pecking and squawking. You fed them,
Mother, red and white pills to buy a few
unconscious hours. I sleep to dream
myself impaled on a steering column,
the stranger’s stake, a rotten body part
tossed to the scavenging birds.
I beg you, fly away with your flock, Mother.