Daniela Elza
today the crow in the pine is a story—
its harsh charred voice pulls the morning
out of the water. ripples
the city’s dissolving dreams.
they walk in broad daylight through memory
lanes lined with walls so thin
you can see where the dumpsters used to be
benches
where we sat and held hands.
under the water a book turning pages.
slow words come undone
float to the surface black oily and slick.
flow under bridges arches aches
the marrow of the quiet the writing down
and what a crow tears out of
such silence.
at feeding time they gather
in the birches. circle.
mussels in their beaks.
my path littered with
broken shells.
the splash of sea water
on winter pavement.
an instant’s sleek shadow
acrossmy face
pecks a memory
out of my eye.
some days I am too empty for descriptions.
myths span our damp sky with doubt.
we look at
each other—negatives of ourselves.
crumbs tossed in axioms of sorrow
and so
I watch your mouth become
a crow-shaped
black hole.
my gaze pulled tight around
the edge between substance
and
nothingness.
between what stutters into night
what splinters into morning.