The Crow Angel

 

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

 

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