Tenor

Crows

               and more crows.

One crow

               with a rat

                              hanging

               from its beak,

sloppy

               and beautiful.

Another crow

               with its wings

                              plucked

               empty.

I wanted

               so much of today

                              to be peaceful

               but the empty crow

untethers

               something in me: a feral

                              yearning for love

               or a love that is so full

of  power,

               of  tenderness,

                              the words

               fall to their knees

begging for mercy

               like tulips

                              in wind.

I don’t wear the crown

               for the times power

                              has tainted

               my body,

but I can tell the difference

               between giving up

                              and giving in.

If  you can’t, ask the crow

               that watches me

                              through the window,

               laughing as I drink

my third bottle of wine.

Ask the sound

               the tree makes

                              when the crow has grown

               disgusted

with my whining.

After years of repression,

               I can come clean.

                              I was a boy

               with a hole

other boys

               stuffed themselves into.

I have wanted

               nothing to do with blackness

                              or laughter

               or my life.

But about love,

               who owns the right,

                              really? Who owns

               the crow

who loves fresh meat

               or the crow who loves

                              the vibration

               of its own throat?

Everything around me

               is black for its own good,

                              I suppose.

               The widow,

the picture of the boy

               crying on the wall,

                              the mirror

               with its taunting,

the crows

               that belong

                              to their scripture.

Can you imagine

               being so tied to blackness

                              that even your wings

               cannot help you escape?

About my life,

               every needle,

                              a small prayer.

               Every pill, a funeral

hymn.

I wanted the end

               several times

                              but thought,

               Who owns this body, really?

God?

               Dirt?

                              The silly insects

               that will feast

on my decay?

Is it the boy

               who entered first

                              or the boy

               who wanted everything

to last?