Crow, I said,
that’s a stone in your beak,
not a seed.
But she didn’t stop
and kept tapping against the rock.
It split in two
and out came a parasite
which perched on her back.
It grew over time, over time, over time,
and crow bowed down
and died.
I lay on the bed
of her black feathers
and they turned white,
in my deepest January,
as snow fell,
lingering, drifting, layering,
while all burned up around me.
The feathered angel-kiss kept me
cold, safe and numb.
Arrows swarmed the air—
hissing, a warring beast
took aim, fired—
and then Thor’s arms came
and I flew
burning like a phoenix—
the foul dart,
pulled
from my back,
crushed in my taloned hand,
fell in fire, sulfur,
sand.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
In Your Deepest January at What’s Going On?