Black Bird Red
Raven is out in the cherry tree, swallowing busily, disturbing branches, clinging to that which glows, red at the throat. Later he will come inside, while the sun places a fierce bid for heat in the dying hour, and make a pie crust to cradle the berries and crumble like earth. I’ll sit at the kitchen table chewing my red lips over comic books, pretending not to be changed by the transformation. Black wings. Tree climber. Tears beading at corners when the coarse hair of his moustache kisses my mouth goodbye, squinting at the light through leaves, rubbing salt from my eyes. Now that he is gone, I don’t know what I will do with my knowledge of the sun. Flour. Butter. Drops of ice water. Turn the oven on.
published in Appalachian Review, Volume 51, Issues 1 & 2: Winter/Spring 2023