Bardo
My parents say
I stooped to sing
to dead crows on the curb
Nighttimes,
they drove me past
dead end signs
so I could flirt
with what lay beyond them
I piled around me
in my canopy bed
a pillow grave
so I could pretend at death.
Tonight
amid the pillows
I fold my arms across my chest
and hope to remember
whether death fancied me
and whether the crows
whispered back.
Categories: Poetry