The Woman Who Swallows Crows/39

by poems & doodles

The woman who swallows crows
sits alone, atop a hill
like a murder in the distance
she holds in quiet still.

Head-to-toe in tattered garb,
around her fingers, ivy grows,
she sits and waits,
her mouth agape,
for reasons no one knows.

It’s said that on a moonless night
she hobbles crookedly down south,
to the bridge along the wooded fringe
and pulls feathers from her mouth.

She plucks them out and drops them,
inky plumes on glassy water,
she coughs and caws,
a hoarse guffaw,
her throat bloody from the slaughter.

And before the sun comes up again,
she’s sitting back in place,
her mouth agape, she sits in wait
for brave crows to overlook
her unassuming face.

 

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