36 The Meadow Crows Rebecca A. Eckland Yin and yang are not circles but oppositional fields Vibrating through bird nests, tangled into the feathers Of a baby crow fallen from the nest he brought home. The crow nestled on a white towel on the kitchen floor scattered With birdseed constellations when I came home from the office to find He was determined to save it. Are mysteries born into the dark matter of the universe Black like my suit and tie? When I was an athlete, I thought I knew What strength was. Saving time by traversing space. It catches up to me, in my bruised ribs and fractured pelvis. That makes me wonder if a strong woman is a monster— Frankenstein and neon green: One leg up, an arm’s length away Primal womb, the body’s language, a spiral ontology And centrifugal forge around which a murder of crows At twilight sculpt orbits in stardust. Meanwhile he, on the kitchen floor, tiny seeds turned to dust Trying to feed the baby crow with a fused beak: I’d rather die than. Google tells me that it won’t; evolution Hates domestic scenes. I wait until the pink winter sky turns dark
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==