The Caw of Crows

I hear the hum of hallucinated neon

in the hospital; the caw of crows

in my vampire-ear.

 

Sympathy: the static rub

on my bare shoulder; the warm hands;

the cluck of tongues

that do not speak my language.

 

The live oak in Florida—tall, strange,

gray-black against thunderheads.

The time-traveling bird-voice

in my ear, in the tree: “Watch out

for what has happened!”

 

I heard more than I saw—even the hum of neon

seemed more clear

to my gray-black eyes.

 

(The banshee in the next bed could not take me;

somehow, I lost control

and lived.)

1 Comment on "The Caw of Crows"


  1. The images in this piece are vivid and sparkle, despite their shadows. The closing lines bring on a shiver of gooseflesh in their dark inevitability. There’s a sense of fait acompli that permeates this poem and seduces the reader into its spell.

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