Thirty-Six
Crows
Steve Klepetar
One crow sails from branch to branch, black
slash in the morning sky.
Four crows perch
on a wire, regard me with the scars
of their
ancient eyes. I am drunk on
the sight
of crows weaving their snaky
patterns
through leafless trees, sharp beaks
gouging
deep at memory’s core.
For three days
now, I have longed to follow crows
on a
broken journey to the surging
sea. Black
waves along the river, black clouds
tumbling
in the tremulous sky. I have
worried crows
with my frozen breath and gathered
sticks
on silvery ground, twisted clever
talons on
spindly legs of fragile
birds. Twelve crows
troop across the frozen lawn, beaks
needling
at the leaf-strewn earth. I
count them on
the knuckles of my bloody
fist. Six crows
slash and nibble at a carcass in
the road,
black and red and a dull sheen of
lifeless
fur. My hunger grows, I pick at my
meat
and feel the anger in my stomach
surge.
I feel the phantom pain of severed wings.
Sometimes my hands are crows, weaving
shadow plays where fire stabs the
cold flesh
of night. Two crows live
behind my eyes –
I dreamed of crows, oily feathers
in a dance of black flame. I
tasted crow’s
scent in bitter air, sailed
along the seam
of candle smoke and rain. Somewhere
crows fill the air, flutter and
alight,
startling at rough sounds of
barking dogs.
Exploding from the tallest trees, thirty-six
crows flood the desperate well of
moon,
dabble dark new stains on
astringent faces
of stars. Their bodies are
cold and their raw
voices shatter in shards and sting
the western light.
Steve
Klepetar teaches literature and writing at