The Girl and the Crow
Like an ice skater
in full circular swing,
she ushered away oncoming traffic
from the wounded bird;
a magician aligned with the mantra
of the handkerchief trick.
And from windshields and
rear view mirrors, the only thing
unpaying audience members could see was
black fluff like soot, dead for days,
flapping around in a messy trance
and the girl, like a merciful soul for Jesus,
carried on with its cross.
All the surroundings were lost to motion
and only the girl moved arms
to pick up the bird in despair,
carry it, now only flapping faintly
to engineer its heart into the memory of beating
so it wouldn’t get too comfortable and rest.
Then on her rooftop garden
she loved that black crow
into the proud stance of a bird of paradise.
She made a sling from a coffee sleeve,
she pumped water into it from a straw
and fed it temperature right, boiled rice.
The bird cawed to its name,
brushed its head against the girl’s leg
and reached out its wing when she told it to shake.
It observed the girl like waves made in the air
to point out the way home and, in the end,
what it felt was too much for its heart to take.
