Photo by Alexander Sinn via Unsplash

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Portrait with Crows

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This evening turned the day’s blaze
into rain. Crows

beside the window, harsh
caws carving a space

in my stomach. The bright
spot of orange hue

in front of me stays.
My daughter’s painting,

untouched yet by artifice,
nor willed into shape.

So abstract was my day—
though bloodied

with details, it scorns
any ordering into some

form easily claimed
by memory. I’ve got

the scraps, the tidbits
of flesh and bone, charred,

unlikely to match anything
I’ve gladly stored

in my mind. I must find
a place for these bones.

The venerable ghost
has overtaken the cellar.

It creeps up the stairs. How
have I lived for so long?

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First published in OPEN: Journal of Arts & Letters, July 2019