The Crow

There’s a dead crow hanging against a clear blue sky
(that’s my soul up there)

*
It’s been there for months.
Catching my eye on every drive home,
piquing my curiosity because
I can’t quite tell what it is from a moving car,
but I have my suspicions.
A feathery blackness in the crook of branches,
not shaken free by wind,
or weighed down by snow;
persistent through the seasons.
I’m obsessed with it.
My girl, who is yet unaware of true darkness
Says “mom, it’s just a piece of plastic, silly.”

But I know.
It is the little black spot in my soul,
lurking in the back of my consciousness
through every season of mood,
ready to rise up and peck at my heart.
Just a small speck on sunny days,
but then growing with its wings of dark night,
enveloping my face in feathers,
obstructing my vision,
gripping my core with its black decay.

*
There’s a little black spot on the sun today
(that’s my soul up there)