I have a crow. A dumb one all the sudden likes to talk. Love like it’s dinner he says.

Black snow is impossible so don’t even try it. Squawk, squawk.

The bird is a small version of my ex-husband
one who held me like an overcoat, spouting ‘adorable! adorable!’

I remember the water all over my shoes.

The crow likes to go places under my blouse. When the engine gets going, it’s all-nite neon signs and big slugs of vodka. There’s a hole in my chest where the fondle throttles. He plays my hair like a harp’I do karaoke numbers.

I have a beautiful voice. It puts footprints on the ceiling. Mash record or play – you can chorus me, etc.

My secret eats worms I drop down my bra – I call him ‘Yesterday.’

He chirps: A field is the perfect form, so I dance too. I dance fields shimmering in Nebraska. Yellow wheat, white dust – the grass frisking itself. I tie the stalks end to end and shimmy down the window.

‘Yes,’ sometimes, for short.

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