Heather Fowler (poetry)

One Crow Sorrow, Two Crows Joy

I hear in Maine they say this—black birds
as portents of what’s next to arrive.
Wrestle your spirit to the mat now,
Husband; I saw one crow on asphalt
tarry, outside our son’s preschool, preen
to exceed that road with his blackness,
his glitter eyes. Are we doomed, I thought?

Will calamity call here? I’ve had
too much of sorrow this last year, drank
the dark draught till I swore I sweat black
from blue-black skin, gleamed like his slick coat–
And then I knew: He was my ally,
that bird, that crow. For we had nothing
to fear, me his second, like I yours.

This morning, he was my dearest friend–
him whose doubling curse might mean my joy.


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