Three Nights with Crow

Colette Jonopulos | Poetry

To climb through layered

dreams and lift the last

tissue of waking, to

find soot on the pillow,

prints splayed and wet.

For three nights there

are nameless children in

cribs, faceless people I’ve

forgotten to feed and

coddle. When the nursery

door opens, they move

into the next room

through walls, like ghosts.

I’ve given names to
even earrings and the

tags around the dog’s

neck—names like

sweet ones, and

low-jingles—now

when it matters, there

are only crossword

puzzles with boxes

half- filled, the forgotten

syllable, the blind

hope of touch. He

dips his beaked face

over mine, eyes widely

spaced, sore from flying

into the sun—grips the

off-green egg with 

care—lays it
within the slippery-walled

nest among wood

shavings, kapok and

horse hair for its

eighteen-day gestation.

Deeper still, to the

place truths unrobe,

where children

wear avian heads

(feathers bristled along

their spines), where

he removes human

offspring, arcs overhead,

returns for the mother.