Self-Portrait as Moirologist
It’s my job to mourn. To wear black
like my father wore black, to stalk and bawl
behind a hearse as it makes its slow crawl
towards the cemetery. And when I watched
the crows gather, they watched me too.
We stood there, observing each other as around us,
a clique of corpses was laid to rest. And when one bird
fell from the line in a burst of electricity and feathers, I ran
to catch it. Paid the rest of the murder no mind
as they surrounded their dead friend and cawed,
pecked my hands when I got too close. Everyone
mourns differently. Some are the carrion birds and some
are carrion, the difference barely palpable. I cannot shake
the feeling I will die soon. In the incredible inky
darkness of night, I am holding a man to my chest, hoping
he doesn’t wake to a body. I am holding a bird in my hands
and watching it die.
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