Cry, cry black feathers down your back, demolish the moon and spit back a mouthful of blood and entrails when they come asking for your sons. Cry disaster, cry calamity, cry a mourning song in octaves only the dogs can hear. Cry a long dead river back into being, cry fire, cry panic, cry light burning through coal-black-skin and demand the dawn. Demand the dawn with all its hope and none of its rain. Cry, cry the molasses back into the body. Cry the stutter back into the heartbeat. Cry, cry the blackbirds back into flight, cry the blackbirds back into the morning sky.
FEATURED POEM | FUNERAL FOR CROWS