31
Ka and Ib
by Julie Foster
Crows are out there,
chuckling twirling and snapping lice.
They scratch sigils into my roof,
invoking other dark gods.
Their caws string from one to the other
measuring distances and
friendships.
I know they love me
for the bare branches of my hair
in the wind,
for the bread and wine
that warm my breath.
For the before
when clouds
carried me up and outward
and the before I crashed into this cage.
See these waxed wires
jointed against my chest?
They demand
with a percussion
of feathers.