Gia Civerolo

THE BONES OF THE BLACK CROW WERE CAUGHT IN MY THROAT

The cracks of the porch cried lined tears

when they butchered the shade of the Elm tree

along with every face in its bark

 

Spitting small pieces across the lawn that

no longer wanted to be green

 

Excavating the twisted roots

wrapped around secret

underworld pipes

 

Squirrels tight rope walking on

the telephone lines

condemning the chainsaw

wielding weathered tan men

who were just glad to get paid

 

I could not look out the window

Nothing remained the same

Grieving

Wishing

they had killed the

dilapidated house instead

while the bones of the black crow

were caught in my throat

GAZING THROUGH THE WINDOWPANE

  

There was so much pain

spinning

outside the windowpane

 

She felt like a Dickenson

heroine, quietly watching

deliberately listening

 

death and a fly

one in the same

buzz by

 

in the comfort

of her home

all alone

 

Thoughts reflecting you

across the glass

Does the sky remember being blue?

 

VOYEUR SPIRITS LIKE TO WATCH

 

They opened each other

like a window

letting light shine

as shadow black

tree branches

stretched across

the centuries and

your body

voyeur spirits watching

as you

beckon me